Can't Hurry Love
by Georgshadow
Summary: Third part in a series, sequel to Worse Than Marriage. As their relationship progresses, Pete finds that the pressures of keeping past secrets hidden from Jim, along with the stress of being with a married man, might be too much to handle. SLASH
1. Prologue

a/n: It's been forever but I'm finally getting around to the third part of the slash series. I'm taking a big risk and doing this one as a multi-chapter fic, and I'm absolutely certain that I'm writing myself into a corner so expect long waits between future chapters (as of posting this prologue I am done with chapter 1 and nearing completion of chapter 2, so at the very least you can expect to get at least one update before I bail out).

Despite the setting of the prologue, the story takes place after "Worse Than Marriage." I also strongly urge you to read "The Black Cat" before reading this one. The prologue is more of an explanatory bit and the plot is vaguely related to it, I assure you.

edit: the photo manip in the "cover" image was made by my friend Britt. There's a link to her blog on my profile page.

Thanks in advance for reading!

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

Sometimes at parties, when he had enough beers in him, Pete could be convinced to tell the story of when he was 24 years old and had made the mistake of falling in love with a married woman.

He'd met her one fateful day when she brought her car into the garage where he worked. At 24, he'd dropped out of college for the second time and found that working with his hands was far more satisfying than filling up blue books with musings about Nietzsche.

It had been the car that had first caught his attention instead of the woman. It was a brand new '56 convertible in candy-apple red, with a busted carburetor and a muffler that rattled when she took it over 60. The way he looked at that car must've been what interested her—a few moments of studying the broad-chested young man with his grease-stained jumpsuit zipped down far enough to reveal a clean white undershirt, and she must've wondered what it would take to get him to look at her that way, too.

When he'd popped the hood and began investigating the engine, she'd gotten up from her seat inside the air-conditioned lobby and leaned against the car's door, lowering her designer Parisian sunglasses and slowly drawling, "Hey, boy, my husband's overseas right now and I'd like to have some paneling installed in the living room to surprise him when he gets home."

"You'd better look somewhere else for a contractor, lady." As a young man, Pete had been a tremendous smart-aleck, and not even the finely dressed society woman with about fifteen years on him was immune to his sharp tongue.

"I was hoping I could hire you to do it for a discount," she responded dryly.

"How much of a discount?" the busted carburetor all but forgotten, Pete wiped his oily hands on the thighs of his jumpsuit and folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm willing to negotiate," she smiled. "I'm gonna need a ride home if you keep the car overnight. How about you give me that ride and come in and see if you're willing to do the job?"

A few hours later, she was sitting in the passengers' seat of his car, her custom-tailored linen suit looking out of place in the beat up hot rod. It took until they reached her neighborhood that their roles were switched and it was him that didn't fit in amongst the three-story houses with wrought iron fences and pools in the backyards. She led him through the double French doors of her home and sat him in the parlor with a glass of sherry, and left him to wait while she skipped off to the powder room, returning a minute later wearing nothing but a short satin bathrobe her husband had bought her.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am," he'd nearly choked on the sherry as he bolted out of his seat, absolutely certain that he should have been much more uncomfortable than he really was.

"Oh, I _do_ like that," she breathed, leaning over the back of an antique chaise lounge. "Keep calling me ma'am, won't you?"

He'd read her name on the paperwork at the garage. He knew that the convertible belonged to Major and Mrs. Jeremy Stevens, and while he also knew that he should've said, "Have a nice day, Mrs. Stevens," instead he let loose the most charming smile he could muster and answered, "Yes, ma'am."

The affair lasted for several months. Major Stevens was stationed in Brussels for the duration of the year, and several times a week when he could get out of various other responsibilities, Pete would make his way to the east Hollywood estate, never once touching the mahogany paneling that was stacked neatly in the utility shed out back. Sex with Dot Stevens was the best he'd had yet, even with a broad, and perhaps out of some naive confusion he was certain that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

Dot, on the other hand, felt about Pete the same way any woman feels about a dishwasher or a garbage compactor. It was a useful object that made her life generally more pleasant, and this particular model just happened to be especially attractive. The hard-working, blue collar youth might have been out of place amongst her atomic-age television set and sparkling Formica countertops, but it drove her wild the way he'd meekly whisper "Yes, ma'am," when she'd shout "Fuck me harder, Pete!"

One typical summer evening, - this part was usually not included when the story was shared at parties- Pete was paying a usual visit to Dot when she'd sprung big news on him. After short, rough sex, while Pete lay tiredly on his back huffing and puffing, she'd sat up on her elbows and sighed, "I need to tell you something."

"Yeah?" he'd mumbled, too sleepy at first to hear the change in her voice.

"I saw a doctor yesterday," she said, softly. "I'm pregnant, Pete."

It hit him instantly, the realization of what it meant. Quickly he sat up, his heart racing, everything he'd felt for her in all this time bunching up together at once.

"It's mine, isn't it?" he'd sputtered helplessly.

"Who else's do you think it would be?" she snapped.

He could hardly catch his breath, his excitement was so overpowering. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked.

"It's not far enough along to tell," she replied.

"Gosh!" he spouted, softly laying a big, oil-stained hand over her small belly. "I can't believe it!"

Dot had no children of her own as her husband was sterile. She said nothing as Pete continued to revel in the unexpected news.

"Just think of it! A baby carriage in my little apartment. I'll have to get a bigger place, of course." He stopped for a moment as he realized what he was saying. "You'll— you'll leave your husband, won't you?" he asked, suddenly somber. "I mean, I can't buy you a big house like this but… I love you, Dot."

It was the first time he'd told her.

She took a long, deep breath and laid back on the bed. Not looking him in the eye, she asked, "How long until you're hard again?"

Pete squeezed himself in one hand, wishing she would've said something else. "A few minutes, I guess."

"From behind, this time," she instructed. "I don't feel like kissing."

With his head lowered, he answered, "Yes, ma'am."

It was several agonizing days before he saw her again. Unsure whether to call her, he waited for her to call him. When he didn't hear from her, he feared the worst, but finally after nearly a week, she called the garage mid-day and asked for him.

"Peter Malloy," he answered, coldly.

"Now that's the voice I've been waiting to hear," she growled into the phone. "You're covered with sweat and motor oil right about now, aren't you?"

"Sure am." Hearing her speak like that washed away every shred of doubt he'd had.

"Oh, I can't wait to have those big strong arms about me tonight," she breathed into the phone, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I'll-I'll be there," he promised as she hung up.

Tom Porter, another guy about his age who'd started working at the garage, grinned at him as he strutted out of the lobby.

"Gonna see that married gal again?" he asked.

"You bet!" Pete replied.

"Be careful," Tom warned, as he always did.

"Yeah," Pete laughed. "Right."

The following part of the story was really the only part that was shared in any sort of social situation.

That night, Dot threw herself upon him as soon as he snuck through the back door so as not to be seen by the neighbors. The bouquet he'd brought her was dropped carelessly on the floor as she ripped his shirt open, sending a button or two flying. Depending on exactly how many beers Pete had had at the party, the number of buttons changed in each rendition of the story, as did the particularly pulpy dialogue.

"You brute!" Dot snarled, "It's been so long, you must be ready to fuck me like the animal you are!"

"Grrr," he laughed, sweeping her up in his arms, carrying her up the stairs into the big master bedroom. He lowered her onto the bed and they tore off each other's clothes, and just as he started, holding her ankles high in the air, the bedroom door burst open.

Major Stevens, on leave paying his wife a surprise visit, stood in full dress uniform, holding a bouquet twice as big as Pete's.

To this day, Pete swears that it was Dot who let out the blood-curdling scream, although this is often debated amongst his colleagues. The second bouquet fell to the floor, and the surprisingly fit major leapt onto the young man, tearing him away from his adoring wife, holding a fistful of hair that had been much redder when Pete was young.

"Don't hurt him, Jeremy," Dot said, half-heartedly, eager to see such a show of masculinity from her sterile husband.

Pete, to his credit, managed to squirm out from under the man's weight, snatching up most of his clothes and tearing out the door. With all his medals and ribbons flapping against his chest, Major Stevens followed Pete all the way down the stairs, three times around the antique chaise lounge, and out the back door into the alley, where he pounced on him again and held him down, his fists coming down on Pete's face like two big hammers.

When he'd beaten the young man severely enough that he stopped struggling, he rolled off of him and flicked a speck of blood off of a hand-polished medal.

Pete laid in the alley for several minutes until he willed himself to gather up his shredded clothes, put them on and limp to his car, where he leaned out the window and spat out a mouthful of nauseating orange saliva and most of a tooth. Then, somehow in his punch-drunk stupor, he drove himself to the garage and fainted.

Before the Black Cat raid when Pete and Tom Porter stopped going to parties together, Tom would often take over the telling of the story at this part, talking about finding Pete sleeping off the excitement in the garage lot, his face looking like a pound of wasted hamburger. Seeing the cheerful, freckled face bruised and mangled was something that he'd never forgotten, and he would spend several minutes describing it in vivid detail before concluding the tale with the way he'd dragged Pete out of his car and checked his face to make sure nothing was broken, helping him get cleaned up and changed into his jumpsuit, and watching him stagger and limp for the rest of the day. That was how come he'd gotten a lazy eye and a broken tooth, and the tale would end in hoots and hard pats on Pete's back for having had such an interesting life.

When the story was shared at parties, neither Pete nor Tom ever got drunk enough to include the real ending. After Tom had patched him up, Pete had stupidly stood in the lobby and called Dot one last time, perhaps thinking he could somehow convince her.

"You've got a lot of nerve, calling me after last night," she said when she answered.

"Dot," he tried. "Marry me, Dot."

She laughed long and hard into the receiver. "Why?" she finally asked.

"I couldn't stand it if that man raised my baby like it was his own," he replied, sternly.

There was a soft sigh, and then, "Pete, I'm not going to have a baby."

"Whaddaya mean, you're not gonna?" he spat.

"I went back to the doctor last week," she said. "I had a procedure. Do you understand?"

"You…" he couldn't say it. He couldn't even bear to think it.

"Anyway, do you honestly think a kid like you would've made a reasonable father for _my_ child?" she laughed.

"I was a good lay at least, wasn't I?" he tried.

Another short pause, and then, "Goodbye, Pete."

It was Tom who found him again, sitting on the floor of the lobby, clutching the phone against his chest, biting his busted lip to keep from sobbing.

"Look, Pete," Tom snatched the phone away and put it on its base, crouching beside him and holding him firmly by the shoulders. "Who needs a broad like that? Women shouldn't manipulate you and control you with sex."

"I was happy," Pete shrugged.

Tom's brow furrowed. "Alright, you wanna get hung up on someone who made you call her 'ma'am,' go ahead."

"I didn't mind that," Pete said. "I loved her, you know? But I'm never gonna let myself love anyone never again."

Neither man, at 24, was much of a wordsmith, but Tom tried. "That's real stupid," he said. "One day you're gonna meet someone who'll love you the way you loved her." He did say some_one_, as he'd been around long enough and heard enough of their coworkers comment on Pete's sex life – a common phrase about him was, "He'll fuck anything with two legs, and maybe even an amputee,"—and he knew that Pete was decidedly ambiguous. "And when that happens, you'd better love that person back, or else you're no better than her."

"Maybe," Pete let Tom help him up and brush the floor's dirt off of his jumpsuit. "It's gonna take someone pretty special to make _me_ fall in love again."

"Until then, let's be bachelors," Tom patted him hard on the back. "We'll love 'em and leave 'em and nobody's gonna tie us down. And when you do fall in love, Pete, you'll know it."

Pete smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'll know it."


	2. A Game of Give and Take

a/n: this chapter originally was going to have an extended sex scene at the end but it got really long and I found that I couldn't get it right unless it was less implicit and more on the vivid side, so in order to keep the T rating on this fic, I cut that out and I might post it later as a separate smut fic.

This chapter and the prologue were posted so quickly because I had them finished ahead of time, but expect a longer wait between future chapters.

* * *

-1970-

The sun blazed in a cloudless sky. It was hot enough for summer uniforms and rolled-down windows. Jim Reed pouted silently in his seat in the cruiser. After a year of working together and two months of seeing each other as more than friends, Pete Malloy had learned to read his partner's face better than anyone else. Still, it was always difficult to tell exactly what was on the young man's mind, especially now with so much going on in his life. He knew that as hard as it had been for him, Jim's struggle was ten-fold. Trying to find a way to explain the truth to his wife while remaining completely stealth at the station had to have been taking a toll on him. Lately, for the past couple of weeks, he'd been seeing a marriage counselor with Jean. Whether it was doing any good, Pete couldn't tell. But as much as he cared for his partner, he truly hoped so.

"Okay, spill it," Pete said, deciding it was about time to break the silence.

"Spill what?" Jim replied so quickly he must have been anticipating the question.

Pete glanced at him through the corner of his eye, letting his silence speak for him. Jim tried to maintain his puzzled look but gave in soon enough.

He sighed, "Sometimes I really hate some of the department regulations, you know?"

Somewhat relieved that it wasn't going to be about the counselor or Jean, Pete let himself smile and turn his attention back to the road. "Look, I know you really wanted to accept that glass of lemonade from Mrs. Olson on that last call, but you know the rules."

Jim folded his arms across his chest. "It's not like a glass of lemonade or a cookie could be taken as a bribe."

"Sure it could," Pete laughed. "I've heard your stomach rumblin' so loud in here sometimes, you'd probably do just about anything for one 'a that old lady's cookies."

Unable to fight the smile forming on his own face, Jim uncrossed his arms and said, "Not a cookie, but I might be pretty tempted if she was handing out a nice four-dollar steak."

"Well," Pete said, "I happen to have two of those waiting in my crisper as we speak."

"Pete!" Jim's grin suddenly turned back into a scowl. "I thought we agreed on hotdogs!"

"Maybe I felt like treatin' ya to something a little special tonight," Pete replied. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"No," Jim sighed. "It's just that now when I buy you dinner, I'll have to really spend a lot to show you up."

At the sound of the radio, Pete reluctantly kept his comeback to himself. "1-Adam-12, 1-Adam-12, meet 1-L-90 on tac 2," the dispatcher droned.

Even on a mundane day like this one, Pete still liked to see Jim reaching for the mic to acknowledge the call. It had grown to be so second-nature for him, just like it had for Pete to see, even _feel_ Jim at his side. It was a partnership that Pete was more than proud of. He knew deep down inside that he needed Jim in more ways than one, and he also knew that it was mutual. How long ago had it been that Jim had said he loved him? He hadn't stopped thinking about that for a moment since, and he worried more every day whether Jim was going to expect to hear it from him, too.

Maybe that's why he was willing to spend eight bucks on steak.

"1-L-90, this is 1-Adam-12, go ahead," Jim continued, switching the radio, always oblivious to Pete's constant internal monologue.

Sgt. MacDonald's voice answered him. "1-Adam-12, do you have time to deliver a warrant? 47 was supposed to handle it, but they're caught up here booking some evidence."

Knowing how tedious it was to be stuck in that kind of situation, they both exchanged a knowing glance before Jim replied, "Roger, Mac." After a moment of thought, he added, "Mac, if we get through this before they're done, do you think they'll need any help with anything else?"

"We'll let you know," Mac replied. "I'll give you the warrant at the station, and you can take 7 before you head out."

Pete tried to interrupt him but Jim was back on the mic before he could get a word in. "Sounds great, Mac," he said.

"Oh, and, one more thing," Mac added. "We've got some picketers out front right now. So far there haven't been any problems, but we're trying to avoid engaging them, so try to get in quick, okay?"

"Roger, Mac. Switching back to tac 1," Jim replied. Hanging up the mic, he said, "I can't wait to get in there and grab a soda."

"I wish you would've waited," Pete said. "I'm getting tired of eating at the station."

"You don't want to have a big lunch, do you?" Jim asked. "I don't know about you, but I think I'd like to save some room for dinner." With a big, dumb grin, he added, "And _dessert_."

"We'll see," Pete said. It wasn't easy to keep his mind off of that on the job, and Jim's awkward flirting didn't exactly help.

As they rolled up to the station, the picketers were in plain sight.

"Who is it today?" Jim asked, squinting to read their signs.

"Probably just typical cop-haters," Pete said.

"Yeah, looks like it," Jim said. "_Pigs_… _racists_… yeah, it looks like the usual stuff." Squinting more, he pointed to one standing off to the side, all by himself. "What's that one?" he asked.

"I didn't see what it said," Pete shrugged, turning into the back lot, wishing Jim would get distracted and change the subject.

"It said, 'Remember the Black Cat,'" Jim replied.

It took a moment for it to hit him, and when it did, he could hardly accept it."…the Black Cat?" saying the name aloud, it felt like just yesterday that everyone had been talking about it. It certainly was something that was on his mind, especially now that things were different with Jim.

And how different they were! He hadn't considered it until now, but it occurred to him in that moment that among the things he had to hide from everyone else around him, there were things that Jim didn't need to know, either. It wasn't that he was a family man or a fellow cop, it was that he was so concerned with doing the right thing. He was so concerned with _justice_. Especially the kind that wasn't a part of the Black Cat.

"Have you heard of it?" Jim prompted at Pete's silence.

"Hmm?" Pete tried to sound as distracted and disinterested as he could.

"That Black Cat thing, do you know about it?"

But how. "If I do, I can't remember it for the life of me," Pete hated lying, but sometimes, he told himself, it was worth it to spare someone's feelings. "Must not have been that important."

"Well, don't tell that guy with the sign," Jim laughed.

"Yeah," Pete said, more solemnly than he'd hoped.

The Black Cat was burned in Pete's mind as if by fire.

Its memory was the kind that he could never forget. It was a memory that haunted, that encroached on his thoughts when he was laying in bed, about to fall asleep. It was the kind that poisoned his dreams.

He'd think he'd gotten over it, and maybe for a while he would. Sometimes months would go by and it wouldn't so much as cross his mind. But as soon as he let his guard down, he'd wake up in a cold sweat, his heart racing as he tried to remind himself that he was still in the safety of his own bed.

The memories of it were vivid and distinct. The way soldiers described being able to hear bullets shrieking past their ears on a battlefield, Pete could still hear the champagne flutes breaking in the scuffle. He could still see a single rhinestone earring tossed carelessly onto the floor, handcuffs crowding the bracelets on a man's wrist, another still wearing his party hat and clutching some kind of noisemaker. He could see the musicians in the band, struggling to save their instruments before themselves, meeting a baton with a trombone case.

It was all still there. Not a single second of that evening had escaped him, or ever would, no matter how hard he tried. Not a single bruise. Not a single, betrayed face.

He remembered the Black Cat.

* * *

"So, tell me more about this dinner you have planned for me," Jim began to tease at the end of watch as they headed for his car. Even after they'd left the station and the picketers were far behind them, Pete hadn't stopped thinking about them for a moment. He couldn't believe that Jim would leave the Black Cat thing alone, and he couldn't begin to imagine what he'd think if he managed to find out more about it. He wouldn't be very happy if he knew the truth, that was for sure.

As if he hadn't learned to hide the truth from Jim the whole time before they were together. As if that hadn't been the hardest part. But he'd learned in the short time that they had been together exactly how sensitive Jim could be about these things. It was walking on eggshells in any relationship, but keeping Jim happy mattered more to him than with anyone else, even if he couldn't say why. It would take a lot more than a steak, and somehow, that didn't bother him.

"It's nothing special," Pete dismissed it, knowing it was useless because Jim would pick at him the whole way home.

"Right, because dropping eight dollars on steak isn't special," Jim said, firing up his car. Pete cringed in his seat, still not used to being Jim's passenger.

"It wasn't just for you," Pete said. "I like to treat myself, too."

"Sure," Jim said, already loosening up after they'd barely made it a block from the station. He grinned at Pete and slid his hand across the seat toward him. "So, uh, what else do you have planned?"

"Watch the road," Pete grumbled, wondering if it would be rude to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the ride.

"Alright, I can wait," Jim replied, his smug little smile proving that he planned on doing the exact opposite. The silence lasted less than a minute. Unable to stop himself, Jim continued, "I've been thinking about this all day."

"I know," Pete said. He could easily anticipate what was coming next.

Glancing at him through the corner of his eye, Jim slowly said, "Have you?"

"Have I what?" Pete replied, so familiar with Jim's banter that he could almost recite it.

"Pete," Jim scoffed just as he turned into the apartment complex's parking lot. "It was such a slow day, I don't think there was anything to think about _but_ tonight."

Pete shrugged, considering everything he'd planned out almost a week in advance. It would all work out so perfectly, he was sure. He'd gone out and bought a white tablecloth, a candle, a single rose… he'd send Jim down to the commons to grill the steaks, and while he was gone, he'd set it all up. Then when Jim came back up with dinner ready he wouldn't be able to believe his eyes.

"It's not gonna be anything special," Pete grumbled again, hating himself for eagerly going along with Jim's girly brand of romance, and at the same time, hardly able to contain his excitement. It didn't kill him to play along sometimes, and knowing that Jim was going to be pleased as punch made it worth the effort to get a little mushy now and then.

"Right," Jim said. He parked next to Pete's space and turned the car off, leaning across the seat and tilting his head. "Maybe not to you, at least."

Pete studied Jim's face. His rosy cheeks and pursed lips said a lot more than any of the crap he was going on about. It was almost strange, even after the times they'd been together, to think that Jim had any sort of sexuality to him at all. He'd always seemed so stifled. Repressed might've been the right word. Or even just disinterested. But behind closed doors, Pete had discovered that Jim had a teeming, pulsing energy in him that he was slowly beginning to get comfortable enough to explore. Things moved slow with Jim, but they moved nonetheless, and Pete wanted to be there to watch them pick up speed.

He rolled his eyes at Jim and got out of the car, leaving him to follow him up the stairs to his apartment. When they made it inside, Jim leaned against the kitchen counter as Pete retrieved the steaks from the fridge.

"Boy, this is gonna be some night," he muttered. "Nice t-bone steak, a little red wine…"

"You're gonna have to settle for a beer," Pete said.

"Beer?" Jim scoffed. "Aw, come on, Pete. You can't have a fancy steak like this without red wine."

"Oh, we can't?" Pete raised an eyebrow at him.

"No!" Jim was completely serious. "Red wine goes with red meat, and white wine goes with white meat."

"What does beer go with, Emily Post?" Pete teased.

Jim shook his head. "Hotdogs."

He really was serious, Pete realized. He tried to brace himself.

"Look, Pete, why don't we just go out and pick up a bottle of wine!" Jim said, like it was the most brilliant thing he'd heard all day.

"No," Pete replied, gesturing with the steaks still in hand. "I specifically planned the timing on this so that we could grill these things up and be back in here before the dinner hour and not have to deal with those lousy neighbors of mine."

"Pete, it'll take all of ten minutes," Jim insisted.

"_No_," Pete said.

"Well, I don't even want the steak, then," Jim pouted.

Pete took a long, deep breath and tried to stay calm. After all the thought he'd put into this, Jim _would_ have to go and mess it up. No matter how hard he tried, Jim would always find something to nitpick.

"Okay, fine," Pete grumbled, yanking open the refrigerator door and throwing the steaks back in, more forcefully then he'd anticipated. They slid to the back with a loud noise, at which Jim visibly flinched. Before he could even open his pretty mouth, the look on his face was already tugging hard on Pete's heartstrings.

"Uh, it's not a big deal," Jim mumbled, lowering his face and glancing at him through his eyelashes. "I guess beer sounds fine."

"No," Pete sighed, giving in quicker than ever. Sometimes even he couldn't believe how easily he'd surrender to Jim's pestering. "You're right, it'll only take ten minutes."

Jim perked up instantly when his puppy-dog look had worked. "I'll pay for my half!"

"Half?" already heading into the hall and grabbing his keys, Pete wasn't going to let Jim manipulate him any more than he already had. "Nah-ah, you're the one who wants this damn wine."

Their banter continued all during the drive to the liquor store and into the parking lot. As Jim pulled up right in front, he said, "Look, Pete, it really is important. The wine and the meat have to complement each other."

"Were you like this before you got married?" Pete knew it was a low blow, and not particularly appropriate for Jim's situation, but by the time he said it, it was too late.

"Don't bring that into this," Jim mumbled, shrinking into his seat.

"Alright, alright," Pete sighed. "Let's just get this over with." He pointed to the storefront as he spoke, "We're just gonna go in there and pick out the cheapest bottle of merlot or whatever and then-,"

"Pete," Jim's attention was suddenly trained on where Pete was pointing. "Uhh, I don't think it's gonna be that easy."

Pete turned to look through the window, and groaned aloud at what he saw. Through the glass storefront, clear as day, he could see the clerk at the register with his hands raised above his head, and a man standing on the other side of the counter, pointing a handgun at him.

Of all the damn things, Pete thought. Aloud, he said, "Alright, you know what's gotta happen. Cover me from the back, and I'll go in through the front."

Instinct and training kicked in right away, and Jim nodded as he lifted his shirt and grabbed at his off-duty piece. As tactfully as if they were on the clock, they silently opened their doors and crouched behind them, Pete keeping his gun trained on the criminal, Jim waiting for his nod to duck low and run around the back of the store.

Pete's heart raced the way it always did when he lost visual contact. Every single time. It had been that way from day one, as it would with any other partner, but being with Jim as they were made it that much more difficult. Being in a dangerous situation with anybody was hard enough, and a dangerous situation with Jim, tenfold. But it was just something he'd learned to deal with. What other choice did he have?

When enough time had passed for Jim to get into place, Pete kept low and made his way to the door, crouching behind the window, letting the brick wall shield him. Then, in one fell swoop, he rose and shoved the door open, still low, and keeping his aim.

The gunman leapt at the sound and tried to make for the back.

"Police officers! Drop your weapon!" Jim appeared from the back room, steady as ever. The would-be robber, seeing he was surrounded, swore and threw down his gun.

"How in the heck did you guys get here so fast?" he muttered, raising his hands. "I had my eye on that clerk the whole time and I didn't even see him go for the alarm!"

"Lucky break," Pete quipped, feeling the hair on the back of his neck settle as he grabbed the gun from the floor and readied his handcuffs.

"Not for me, it wasn't," the guy muttered. "Of all the liquor stores in this whole city, I just had to choose this one."

Pete kept from rolling his eyes. Thinking about getting the guy to the station and handling all the paperwork, he couldn't help but feel the exact same way.

* * *

"So much for getting those steaks grilled before the dinner hour," Jim laughed about two hours later as he climbed back into the driver's seat and handed Pete a paper bag with an oversized wine bottle inside.

"And whose fault is that?" Pete grumbled, peering into the bag.

Jim grinned as he pulled out from the liquor store, giving a final wave to the clerk. "How was I supposed to know that store was gonna get held up?"

"It came to you in a dream," Pete shrugged. "If you'd 'a just been happy with beer…"

"It's just as well we were there," Jim said. "You know, that clerk was so grateful, he tried to give me that bottle for free."

Pete knew Jim was right, and with nothing else to say, he sat quietly and let his silence speak for him instead. Deep down inside, he was glad they'd been there, too. But having to explain the whole situation to everyone at the station didn't exactly make it easy to admit.

"I thought you guys were just grillin' up a couple of hotdogs," Woods had teased at the station. "Who drinks wine with hotdogs?"

"Oh, Pete got a couple of nice t-bone steaks!" Jim had blabbered, still smiling when Pete turned to shoot him a few daggers.

"Don't you guys know what meat prices are like these days?" Woods chuckled, "Look, next time you guys feel like doing a little plainclothes work, just make sure not to do it when I'm getting ready to go on 7."

Pete's stomach growled as they drove back to his apartment. And Woods thought _he_ had problems.

"Look, Pete, I'm sorry." Jim said softly after a few long, quiet minutes. "We only lost a couple of hours."

"Those were important hours," Pete replied. "We could've had the whole place to ourselves. The grills, the pool…"

"The pool?" Jim beamed. "And I didn't even bring my swimsuit."

"It's still a little light out for skinny dipping," Pete rolled his eyes.

Jim blushed all the way up to his ears. "Too bad," he said, losing himself in thought.

When they finally got back to Pete's apartment, he was still smiling up a storm, and it lingered all the way up the stairs and through the door.

Pete did his best to pretend to ignore him. If this were any other night, they wouldn't make it past the door before someone said something and the steaks were all but forgotten, left to go bad in the fridge while they scurried off to Pete's bedroom. But this wasn't any other night. Pete had put far too much thought and preparation into this little 'date' to give up on it now. Trying to make up for lost time, he headed straight for the kitchen and threw open the refrigerator, peeling the steaks out of their butcher paper and dropping them onto some plates.

"Here," he thrust the plates at Jim before he could say anything about sitting down and getting comfortable before dinner. "You know where the grills are, right? You go get these started while I set the table."

Jim took the plates but remained in the doorway, still wearing the ridiculous grin.

"What are you waiting for?" Pete spat.

"Do you want me to use my hands?" Jim replied. "Can I get a fork, maybe?"

Indignant at Jim's teasing, Pete stiffly opened a drawer and fished out a pair of tongs, which he held onto as he spoke. "Don't waste your time down there, got it? And if you run into any of those neighbors of mine, let 'em know we have patrol in the morning."

Jim smiled and rolled his eyes, snatching the utensil from Pete's hand and shuffling away. As soon as Pete heard the door close, he strode into his bedroom and pushed the sliding closet door open, snagging the paper bag he'd kept hidden at the bottom for almost a week.

Returning to the kitchen, he set the bag on the counter and removed the white tablecloth, unfolding it and laying it over the cheap plastic dining room table. Then, in the center, he set up a candle. It was one of those cutesy 'country' ones that came in a glass jar—he knew it certainly wasn't as romantic as a pair of candlesticks, but somehow he just didn't trust Jim enough not to knock one over and set the tablecloth on fire. Nothing would ruin an intimate dinner like explaining to the apartment manager why they'd set off the building's sprinklers.

Standing back to admire his work, he reached into the bag one more time and fished out the final touch—a tiny crystal vase his mother had given him when she'd moved back to Seattle, telling him it was a preemptive wedding gift since she "probably wouldn't be around" by the time he ever did settle down. In it he placed a single red rose he'd picked up the night before. It hadn't wilted too much yet, and next to the candle on the tablecloth it looked downright pretty.

"Stupid shit," he groaned aloud. Even completely alone, he couldn't help but be embarrassed at himself. This wasn't like him, playing these little romance games, getting all giddy about a ridiculous candlelight dinner. He felt like an idiot. And yet, at the same time, there was a tiny part of him that couldn't wait to find out what Jim would think of the gushy gesture.

With that in mind, he took one last look at his work and went out to find Jim, heading down the stairs and around the building to the apartment commons. The hot summer air had cooled as the sun was setting, but as he rounded the corner he could hear the neighbors' kids splashing and screaming in the pool. Even more to his chagrin he could also hear Jim chatting eagerly with those kids' parents.

Stiffly, angrily, trying not to visibly ball his fists, he approached the grill where Jim was working on the steaks and familiarizing himself with Mike and Doris Mulrano and their wretched children.

"Hiya, Pete!" Mike greeted him from the adjacent grill, where he was burning at least three packs of hotdogs. "Hey, ya never introduced me to your partner. I seen him around here enough times, I thought he was your brother or somethin'."

Jim gave Pete a defeated smile and a shrug. "I was, uh, just telling your neighbors about our 211."

"Boy, I had no idea you guys saw so much action, even off the job," Doris added. "You really ought to tell us more about your work."

"You know what Pete, we're both havin' dinner, why don't you join us?" Mike suggested. "I bet the kids would love to hear some of the old cops-and-robbers stories."

"No," Pete said firmly. At Jim's scowl, he repeated, "No _thank you_, Mike."

"Aw, come on, be a sport," Doris prodded.

"Yeah, Pete, be a sport," Jim laughed.

Pete could feel his jaw clench so tight he worried he might crack a tooth. Was it really too much to ask, he wondered, for Jim to allow him to have _one_ nice evening? He should've known after the crap with the wine—which Jim had completely forgotten by now— not the press his luck. It made him wonder why he even bothered sometimes. They already had something pretty good going on, and there was no need to improve a good thing, right? Even now, Pete would hardly believe that he could feel so strongly about a guy and know everything he felt was more than reciprocated. Much more.

And maybe that was why he bothered trying to do nice things. Because as much as he tried to make himself, he couldn't forget the sound of Jim uttering those damn words. "I love you, too, Pete," he'd said, as if he had convinced himself that Pete could possibly let himself feel the same way.

Pete forced himself to sit at the picnic table. He forced himself to smile and chat with the Mulranos and only give Jim a few lingering glares across the table. He even forced himself to bite his tongue when one of the kids leaned over the table and dripped pool water all over his perfectly grilled four-dollar steak.

When at last they'd finished their dinner and he wasn't sure if he could bear to sit through another one of Doris' anecdotes about working for the phone company or one of Mike's trite cop jokes or quips about how much younger Jim was than the rest of them—the worst of all was the comment about Pete being old enough to be Jim's dad, which wasn't true and more distasteful than Mike would ever know—, he rose from the table and reminded Jim about having patrol in the morning. As he stalked out of the commons he could hear Jim clambering to follow him. When they were far enough away, Jim called after him, "I just don't understand why you don't like your neighbors."

"I guess you wouldn't," Pete sighed, stopping and waiting for Jim to catch up. "Just you wait, one of these mornings you're gonna be here when those kids start chasing each other up and down the stairs and roller-skating right outside the door."

"I liked those kids," Jim replied, still mostly oblivious to Pete's dark mood. "I can't wait until Jimmy's that age."

"Yeah," Pete rolled his eyes, trying not to imagine Jim's son being such a little terror. He also stifled the thoughts of the handsome young man turning into a crusty old dad like Mike, with no more than a bald spot and a beer gut to show for his years of parenting.

"Hey, Pete," Jim's smile began to soften as he apparently caught on to Pete's sulking. "Look, thanks for dinner, okay?"

"Yeah," Pete repeated, knowing that if Jim kept up that sincere tone of voice and sweet little grin, it would be hard to stay mad too much longer.

"Well, uh," Jim took a heavy breath and started up the stairs. "I guess it's time to turn in, then. We do have patrol in the morning, after all."

"That we do," Pete replied, following him up, letting Jim lead the way now.

When they made their way to his apartment and he closed and locked the door behind him, he watched as Jim stopped short in the kitchen, freezing in place, still clutching the plate.

"Pete..." he started, his gaze locked on the table, the candle, and the single rose.

So much for that feeling of excitement. Completely humiliated, Pete coughed and said, "Well, now you know why I didn't want to eat with Mike and Doris."

"Did you do this for me?" Jim grinned, finally putting the plates in the sink and edging toward the table.

"Look, don't push it," Pete couldn't stand it. He should've known how Jim would react to such a dumb gesture.

"You're a regular romantic, you know that?" Jim persisted. "You really know how to woo a guy."

Pete rolled his eyes. "I shoulda just gone with hotdogs."

Eventually Jim's smile began to fade. "Pete, really," he said, sounding a lot more sincere. "Hotdogs would've been just fine. You know I didn't come over here just to eat, anyway."

"Oh, I know that," Pete said. "You said so yourself, you wanted dinner _and_ dessert."

"About that," Jim said, slowly taking Pete's hand and holding onto it harder than ever. His fingers were clammy and shaky as he spoke. "I… you know, we've been together a while now. And, uh, you know how much I like being with you. You know how I feel about you." With this, he forced himself to meet Pete's eyes. He was as serious as he was on the job.

Pete's heart raced as Jim paused for him to respond. It was now, he knew, that Jim was expecting to hear him say what he hadn't yet even had the will to think. He wanted to hear him justify the candle and the rose and the steaks. He wanted to hear everything he'd said repeated back to him. He wanted to hear that Pete loved him.

Pete squeezed Jim's hand and tried to think of something, anything, to say. Jim should have known better by now, he told himself. They'd had this discussion once already, and he'd had his answer. His answer was that he wasn't going to _get_ an answer. He should've known by now that there was one thing Pete could never say to him. Words like that weren't a part of his vocabulary. The candles and the rose and the steaks should have been more than enough to show how he felt. It almost made him angry to think about it. It was all he could do not to blurt out, _don't put me on the spot like this! Don't ask that of me!_

But he kept silent instead. If he couldn't tell Jim what he wanted to hear, then he wouldn't say anything at all.

And Jim did know better. At Pete's silence, he ducked his gaze back to their clasped hands and repeated, "Well, you know how I feel."

"Yeah," Pete said, surprised at his tone. His voice was hardly above a whisper. Jim really knew how to get to him, and he seemed to be perfectly aware of that, too.

"And uh," Jim blushed and grinned. "I like the way we've been doing things."

"But?" Pete anticipated.

"I wanna, uh, switch it up. You know?" he laughed nervously as himself. "I wanna know what it's like to be…"

"Fucked?" Pete finished the sentence, knowing Jim probably would've said something different. "Are you sure you're ready for something like that?"

Jim gulped, his eyes wide at the use of the word. "Well, if you put it that way…"

"Hey," seeing that he'd made Jim even more nervous, he tried to sound reassuring. "It's not that bad, really. Nothing that you can't handle."

"You're right," Jim nodded determinedly. "I want to do this."

Pete laughed at how serious Jim was about it.

"What's so funny?" Jim demanded.

Pete grinned at Jim's pursed lips and furrowed brow. He bent forward and placed a small kiss on those lips, letting himself take a step backward and lead Jim down the hall into his bedroom.

"You really think you're ready for this, huh?" he asked teasingly, although the question was entirely serious.

"I'm a big boy, Pete," Jim rolled his eyes. "I'm not even a probationer anymore."

"That doesn't have anything to do with this," Pete countered.

Jim fought to keep from grinning. "I know. I _want_ to do it."

"Tell me if anything doesn't feel good, okay?" Pete ordered, sternly.

Jim scoffed. "I'm going to be fine."

"Don't be so sure," Pete replied.

"Are _you_ going to be okay?" Jim asked, still smiling.

Pete grumbled. "I just don't want to hear you complaining about it later on, that's all."

"Pete." The kidding tone dropped from Jim's voice. He met Pete's eyes and reached for his hand, and softly he said, "I'm ready if you are."

The sudden seriousness was more than Pete could take, and saying nothing else, he bent and kissed Jim again, assuring himself that Jim was strong enough and man enough to handle it. It was why he wanted this, and why Pete felt strongly enough about him to be gentle. He'd never cared so much before, but now, it was more important than anything else.

"Alright," Pete nodded. "As long as you're ready."


	3. Don't Come Easy

a/n: There's hardly any traffic on this darn thing and only one review from a friend. Why I bother to continue with this is beyond me. I had most of this chapter written ahead of time, so there's probably going to be a MUCH longer wait for chapter 3, not that anyone's holding their breath in anticipation.

* * *

Morning always came too soon after so little sleep. The clock radio cutting through whatever groggy dreams he'd been having, Pete woke to feeling another body lying beside him—something he wasn't quite sure he'd ever get perfectly accustomed to. Even by the time he turned the alarm off, Jim was still blissfully asleep, with the slightest grin hanging on the corners of his mouth.

"You better be dreamin' about me," Pete said to the sleeping face. Jim's long, black eyelashes fluttered slightly in response, and he let out a few incoherent noises as Pete rolled out of bed, taking care not to disturb his partner.

In the bathroom mirror he squinted at his reflection. Too many mornings he'd stood there in the same way, his regret showing on his face more clearly than the soft blonde stubble. But this morning, and all the mornings after Jim had stayed the night, was completely different. Somehow that sinking feeling of having made an embarrassingly bad decision the night before was totally absent. Somehow, something about the young man in his bed, sleeping away the morning, even drooling a bit on Pete's pillow, made him feel so _happy_.

And how could that be? How could doing everything wrong seem so right? He couldn't begin to answer questions like that, and as he put on his shaving cream, he instead tried to think about the night before, or the day ahead of them. It would be a typical day, a routine patrol if they were lucky. Being bored on a job like theirs was always a little better than running into a ton of thrills, and after walking in on a 211 last night, he wasn't sure he was up for more of that sort of fun.

Shaving out of the way, he brushed his teeth and returned to the bedroom to find Jim with the covers pulled over his face.

"C'mon, we're gonna be late for roll call," Pete said.

Jim whined and tried to turn over.

"Uh-uh, time to get up," Pete peeled back the covers with little fight, gazing fixedly over Jim's trim, athletic body in all its morning glory.

"Hi," Jim sighed, smiling, rubbing his eyes, and stretching his long legs.

"You were dreamin' about me after all," Pete teased, shamelessly letting his eyes linger.

"Oh." Jim groaned and tried to cover himself back up.

"The rest of you needs to get up, too." At the lack of response, he added, "In a few minutes it's not just gonna be the clock radio, I'm gonna push the hi-fi in here and crank it up to full blast."

"Can I borrow your shaving brush?" Jim mumbled, finally sitting up, leaving the sheet bunched in his lap.

"You're never gonna remember to bring yours, are ya?" Pete said, taking Jim's hand and urging him to stand, giving him a dumb kiss on the cheek when he was in his arms. He savored feeling Jim's nude, awake body so close, even if he had to tell himself that there just wasn't time to take advantage of the situation.

"Jean said I should probably just buy one to leave over here," Jim replied, returning the kiss.

"…Jean?" Hearing the name in such a moment threw Pete off balance. "She did?"

For her to tell him that meant that he had to have told her a little something, too. And, knowing Jim's big mouth, the shaving brush probably wasn't the only thing he was talking about. In the past few weeks, Pete hadn't gone out of his way to ask a lot about the marriage counselor, let alone Jean. He didn't figure it was that important, or else Jim surely would've talked about it. But there was a lot Jim didn't tell him, he knew. He kept a lot of things bottled up. There was a lot more to him than he often cared to show, a lot more going on behind those pretty blue eyes than anyone ever knew about. It was one of the things that was so captivating about him, and something that Pete, in that moment, began to fear might just prove to be quite a problem.

"Okay, well," Pete forced a smile and gave Jim a hard pat on the back. "Go, uh, get cleaned up."

Jim studied his face, probably picking up quick that there was something on Pete's mind.

"Yeah…" Jim said softly, keeping a worried eye on him. As he disappeared into the bathroom, Pete sat back down on his bed and told himself he was going to get dressed. But he hesitated instead, thinking about that look Jim had given him.

So he was telling Jean about things that he did while he was with Pete, huh? And just what was he telling her? Grudgingly picking a pair of clean-looking pants out of the hamper, Pete tried to guess. Hopefully it was only tales about using Pete's shaving brush morning after morning, but knowing Jim, there was no telling whether Jean was subjected to crap like, "When I plow in there at the right angle I can make 'im moan like you never heard."

When Jim returned from the bathroom, he sat next to Pete on the bed and pressed his cheek against Pete's, sighing softly at the feeling of the freshly-shaved faces touching each other.

"I never asked you," Pete slowly began, stepping into the pants and turning away as he continued to dress. "About that marriage counselor stuff."

"It's going well," Jim replied, sounding like it had been something he'd wanted to talk about for quite some time now. "_Really_ well." He opened a dresser drawer and he struggled to decide between the two shirts he'd left at Pete's so he didn't have to wear the same clothes to work the morning after.

"Yeah?" Pete prompted.

"For a while there, I wondered if Jean and I were ever gonna speak again. It was really looking like we were gonna get divorced."

Pete let the words soak in. "You aren't going to?" A sinking feeling began to settle upon him, although at the moment he couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the deja-vu.

"I dunno," Jim said. "Jean would have to find a job and we'd have to look into selling the house before we made any solid plans."

Perhaps more hopeful than he should have been, Pete perked up and spun around, grinning wildly at the thought. "You wanna stay here until then?"

"Well," Jim blushed. "I mean, it might start to look a little questionable if we _always_ showed up at the station together."

"Brinkman and Sanchez carpool," Pete replied, still not entirely sure why he suddenly felt so overwhelmed by what Jim was saying.

"But what'll your neighbors think about my car being here all the time? You really think Mrs. O'Brien isn't gonna say something?" Jim didn't sound antagonizing. It seemed to be sincere concern.

"You could give Jean the car. You could park on the street down the block," Pete tried, knowing how stupid and pathetic he must've sounded, and hating himself for it the longer he went on.

Jim smiled and shook his head. "Pete, you know I'd move in with you in a heartbeat, if I could. But… don't worry, okay? I'm sleeping in the guest room and Jean spends most of her time at her sister's place. We're hardly even a couple anymore. We're more like roommates."

"I'm not worried about that," Pete said, honestly. "I just…"

And he couldn't say it. Slowly, the memories came back to him, even without the party atmosphere and half a six-pack in him. Running his tongue over his broken tooth, he knew why it bothered him that things were getting better between Jim and Jean. It hadn't been the first time in his life he was ready to ask someone to leave their spouse. It hadn't been the first time he felt strongly enough...

He pushed the thought away quickly and shook his head. "Well, I'm glad things are working out," he lied.

"Yeah," Jim said, finishing the last button on his shirt and smiling warmly. "So am I."

* * *

The ride to the station was quiet, and they split up before roll call, each going off to do their own thing before they'd spend another eight hours together. The latter action had come naturally to them. Perhaps instinctively they both knew that if they spent a solid twenty-four hours together they'd be at each other's throats by the end of patrol, and it also helped to give the impression at the station that they weren't, in fact, going to go home after watch and have passionate albeit occasionally nervous sex.

After they changed into uniform and Jim wandered off to do whatever it was he did by himself at the station, Pete made his way to the break room, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting alone at a table to drink it and study a previously-read paper.

This particular morning, as Pete settled in to enjoy his few minutes of silence before he'd be at Jim's side for the duration of the day, another body warmed the seat across from him, and leaning charmingly over the table said, "Having some coffee with your cream, I see."

The voice was a new one, and Pete laid down the paper to get a glimpse at its owner.

She was pretty and chesty, and wore a smile, a blonde updo and a badge so polished it glimmered brilliantly under the fluorescent lights.

"You're the senior lead officer, aren't you?" she asked him. "I'm Janette Vera. I'm 'on loan' from Juvenile and I'm going to be conducting some PR meetings at some schools in your area."

Pete gladly shook her hand over the table, recalling having heard the name mentioned at a previous roll call, but pleased to see that this Officer Vera turned out to have a much more impressive bust than another Vera he'd known at the academy.

"Pete Malloy," he introduced himself, checking her ring finger before he was aware of what he was doing. Not that it mattered with Jim around, of course, but he'd been doing it for so many years, he wasn't sure he'd ever break the habit.

"I had no idea Central Division was so busy," she commented, eager to make conversation with the superior officer.

"We have our moments," he said, folding the paper and shifting in his seat so that he was sitting in such a way that his bicep was in plain view every time he lifted his coffee to his lips. Even if he was with Jim now, nobody at the station knew that, and it wouldn't hurt to make sure every policewoman on duty knew he meant business.

Vera, to her credit, seemed to be more interested in the insignia on his shoulder than the arm beneath it, and she blushed at the attention the seasoned officer paid to her.

"I can't say how thrilled I am to be working with Juvenile. There's a lot of good work that gets done in that division, you know? We're going with Narco around to some high schools to give a drug awareness lecture. Anyway, this is my first PR assignment and I'm not sure what to expect."

"High school, huh?" he repeated. "If you looked like me, those punks would tear ya up. But a pretty gal like yourself ought to get their attention."

The compliment elicited no reaction, and she continued unfazed. "Oh, good. I've heard high schools can be difficult. When they're in grammar school, kids still want to be policemen when they grow up, but give 'em a few years and they start feeling a little differently."

"Hey!" the door to the break room swung open. Jim and Brinkman poked their heads in. Grinning, Brink said, "You two coming to roll call or should we let the lieutenant know you've made prior arrangements?"

"Oh!" Vera looked at her watch. "I had no idea we'd been talking so long!"

As they trotted out of the break room, Jim fell behind Brinkman and Vera, touching Pete on the elbow to get his attention.

"Just how long _were_ you talking?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

"Let's try to get through roll call without any seething jealousy, okay?" Pete said, irritated that Jim had the nerve to call him out yet again for simply talking to a woman, especially after their conversation this morning.

Jim said nothing for the duration of roll call, stewing silently until they were in the car, pulling out from the lot, and cleared.

"So, you met that policewoman from Juvenile," he began again, treading softly on what Pete guessed could be the beginnings of a big argument.

"I did," Pete replied, straight-faced. "I tell ya what, there's something about rookies that makes a guy feel a little sentimental."

"_Sentimental_, sure," Jim said. "Especially when they're blonde and have a 38-inch bust."

"I think I prefer brunettes," Pete tried to appease him, smiling sweetly. "And a 32-inch waist."

"Pete, I wear a 31," Jim rolled his eyes.

"Christ, you're skinny," Pete said.

"You're trying to change the subject, aren't you?" Jim pouted.

"Yup," Pete replied, training his eyes on the road the moment Jim started to make a face like that. Between Jean and Vera, Jim's topics of conversation seemed as of late to revolve entirely around women, and Pete wanted to talk about neither the wife nor the police officer.

"Okay, fine," Jim sighed. "Change the subject, then."

Pete grinned, trying to think of something, anything else to talk about. Only one thing came to mind, and as Jim started to fidget at the silence, he decided to risk bringing it up. "So, uh, how do you feel about what happened last night?" he started, knowing Jim could figure out what he was referring to.

Jim scoffed and shook his head. "Weren't you the one who said we shouldn't talk about _that_ while we're on patrol?"

"Yeah, you're right," Pete said, not sure what else he wanted to talk about.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, Jim began to fidget and gave in. "I uh, I liked it," he said.

"Yeah?" Pete perked up.

Jim nodded. "It was… different."

"Different good or different bad?" Pete asked.

Jim shrugged, leaning his weight on the door's arm rest and gazing out his window.

"Well," Pete had hoped it would be easier for Jim to talk about. "If you want to just keep doing it the way we have been…"

"No," Jim said, sternly. "No, it's fine."

"If you don't want to—,"

"No, Pete," Jim smiled shyly. "Really, I liked it. It was just, you know, a little different."

"How different?" Pete insisted.

"You know what it feels like!" Jim laughed. "I guess what I really liked…"

"Yeah?"

After a few moments of concentrated thought, Jim blushed and squirmed in his seat. "You know, maybe we should talk about something else."

That _would_ be typical of him, Pete thought, shaking his head and trying not to roll his eyes. Get himself all worked up just from talking about it, like he was 14 instead of almost 24. But he couldn't blame the guy. It was exactly why Pete usually knew better than to talk about personal stuff at work.

Interrupting his thoughts, the radio chatter started up again. "1-Adam-12, a 211 just left. See the man, 2794 West Wheeler Street."

Jim sat up straight in his seat and took a long, deep breath before acknowledging the call.

"Are ya gonna be alright by the time we get there?" Pete asked him.

"Yeah," Jim said sharply, rolling down the window and leaning into the breeze.

The address brought them to a little coffeehouse with a big gods-eye painted right over the door. Without being too obvious, Pete eyed Jim on the way in, knowing it was likely that nobody would even notice if he was still in a state, but concerned about his partner's ego nonetheless.

The building's interior matched the paint job outside, and the few patrons, with stringy long hair and clothes made of natural fibers, fit in perfectly.

One of the group stood up and approached the officers. "My name's Andy Feltz, I run the place and I'm the one who called you guys."

"I'm Malloy, my partner's Jim Reed," Pete nodded to Jim. "Would you mind stepping outside with me while my partner talks to the other witnesses?"

"Oh sure, man, I figured that's what you'd wanna do so I made sure nobody talked to each other or nothing. You know, keep everything all fresh and unadulterated in their minds, like," Feltz said. He absentmindedly twisted a piece of his beard between his fingers as he spoke. Jim gave Pete a long, weary look as they headed out. Pete hadn't meant to pawn the patrons off on him, but as he thought about it he wished he would've stayed inside instead.

Jim was a tough cop, Pete told himself, he could handle it even if he was having a hard time. Pete knew he couldn't let Jim off easy just because he was tired from last night and weary from thinking about it again in the car.

Once they were outside, Feltz sighed and began. "Now, I don't want you getting the wrong impression about this place," he said. "Ordinarily I don't want a lot of contact with you guys but I want to cooperate because this is really important to me, okay?"

"That's a good way to look at it," Pete said, unfazed. "Now, you wanna tell me what happened?"

"Sure, man, sure. Well, uh, it was just like I told 'em on the phone. He comes in swinging a knife at me and some of the folks, sayin' he's gonna cut us up if we don't give him all the cash we had."

"And you gave him the money from your till?" Pete asked, slowly filling in the details on his notepad.

"Of course!" Feltz said. "This is supposed to be a safe place. I don't want anybody getting hurt, even if it means I gotta give up about $85."

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Oh, it couldn't have been more than half an hour or so."

"You seem pretty calm," Pete commented.

"I'm not spooked or nothin'," Feltz said. "I'm just sad, really. I mean, Danny's a good guy."

"You know the man who held you up?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Feltz shrugged, "The guy's a patron here. A regular. His name's Danny Montoya. Some guys call him Monty, if that's any help to you."

"What's he look like?"

"Let's see, he's got black hair, brown eyes, I think. Kinda messy skin, like he had bad zits when he was younger." Feltz continued to twist on the beard as he spoke. "Stands about, uhh, 5'6 or 5'7, I guess. I don't know how much he weighs, but he's a lot skinnier than he used to be."

"Do you have any idea why Montoya would want to hold you up, Mr. Feltz?" Pete prompted.

"Heh, mister, I like that. Not a lot of folks call me mister." At Pete's silence, he coughed and continued, "Well, I do know. Danny's always been a clean guy. He was like me, he never did anything harder than…" he paused to glance from Pete's eyes to his badge. "Well, none of the hard stuff. I mean, Danny didn't even smoke grass. But a few months ago he starts acting all weird. I had no idea, I thought he was on the sauce or something, until I got a look at those track marks on his arms."

"You think he needed his fix today?" Pete shook his head at the familiar, tragic tale.

"You said it. He got laid off a while back and I guess he just ran out of money or something," Feltz said. "Look, I mean, I'm not trying to bust the guy's chops or anything. I even felt so bad for him I was giving him his java for free. But you know, $85 is a lot of dough. More important than that, I don't want to see anybody getting hurt. It was a knife today, but who knows when it's gonna be a gun."

Pete nodded, half-listening to the commentary. "Yes, Mr. Feltz. Do you have any idea where we might be able to find Montoya?"

"Hmm," Feltz pondered. "I know he was staying in some single-occupancy joint a while back. Vermont Inn or something like that. There's no tellin' where he is now."

"Well," Pete wrapped up his notes. "We'll put out our report and the detectives'll take over from there."

"Hey, let 'em know, won't you?" Feltz finally released the beard and laid a hand on Pete's arm. "Go easy on him. He's a good guy, he's just making some bad choices. I care about the guy a lot, okay?" His eyes began to shine a bit as he spoke. "I mean, I care about him. He's more than a friend to me. I wanna see him get clean more than anything else."

"Yeah," Pete said solemnly. "We'll let 'em know."

* * *

They continued their patrol after putting Montoya's description on the air, silence hanging heavily over them. Jim was almost as quiet as the radio after taking the report at the coffeehouse, saying nothing else unless Pete directly asked him a question. When they stopped a car with a tail light out, Jim spoke to the driver as if it was a perfectly typical day and he had nothing on his mind, but as soon as they returned to the black and white, the silence remained.

At the very least, Pete told himself, if Jim was moody today, he was handling it well while on duty. Just because they didn't talk in the car didn't mean that he wasn't doing his job correctly. Indeed, the few times they rolled with other partners, there would always be comments about how chatty the both of them were. If other partners didn't feel the need to have a steady flow of dialogue, why should they?

The difference was that they weren't like other units, Pete continued to mope. Even to the ignorant observer, they were closer than most partners, having openly formed a bond beyond friendship. Sure, it was common to spend time with one's partner outside of work, but Pete often wondered if there weren't any rumors about them. At least he'd yet to see any slanderous graffiti in the men's room. As long as he never read "the Strawberry Fox takes it in the ass" scrawled between the urinals, everything was fine.

It must have made him uncomfortable, Pete finally realized as he studied Jim's bored expression from the corner of his eye, to talk about the night before while they were on patrol. Sex was something that was still somewhat of an uncharted territory for Jim. Pete knew no amount of pressure could ever get Jim to admit it, but he wondered exactly how many times he'd even slept with Jean. Sometimes in moments of heaviest conversation, Jim had let slip small tidbits of the truth about himself, that he'd never been attracted to women in the slightest, that he'd had to _force_ himself to be with Jean even on their honeymoon…

Pete couldn't comprehend such a mindset. Liking men or not, how could anyone not like women, too? Even with Jim sitting just a few inches away, he easily let his mind wander back to the morning's conversation with Officer Vera—he couldn't remember a damn word she'd said, but he could remember the way her impressive bust had made her badge and name tag stand out at a sharp angle. It puzzled him to think that Jim was so decidedly attracted to men. Not even men, just him. After all, he'd never made a peep about any other man, or anybody else at all. It was all Pete, and only Pete.

With that in mind, Pete kept on eye on Jim moping and pouting on the other side of the car and decided it was time to get him to speak up. Maybe Jim was uncomfortable talking about sex, but he needed to learn to get over it.

"Let's get something to eat," he said, sternly.

"I'm not hungry," Jim sighed.

"You're always hungry," Pete argued. "You wanna eat at the station?"

Jim shrugged.

It took everything in him to keep from yelling at the young man for being so moody. Instead he pointed at the radio and ordered, "Go ahead, request it."

Jim gave him a brooding look but did as he was told, mumbling so bad the dispatcher asked him to repeat the request twice.

* * *

"Boy, that place sure was something," Jim finally started up as they settled into the break room over their lunches. Tearing through the tin foil and getting a good whiff of some hot chorizo seemed to coax the words out a little easier.

"How do you figure?" Pete asked him, hoping that Jim's silence hadn't been because of their earlier conversation.

"Well, usually you go into a place like that and nobody wants to talk to ya at all," Jim said.

"It's like Feltz said, he's looking out for a friend," Pete replied.

"Still," Jim seemed to be enjoying the sound of his own voice after such a long period of quiet. "I just wish more people were like that. You know, talking to us like we're regular guys even if they don't like what we do for a living."

"Same old song," Pete sighed.

"I mean it, Pete! People get the wrong idea about individual officers because of things that go down with the department as a whole." Jim paused for a moment, stared deeply into his burrito, and dared, "Like that Black Cat thing."

"Black Cat _thing_?" Pete repeated, slowly.

"Yeah… I talked to Brink about it this morning."

"Oh, you did, did you?" So that's what Jim had been up to before roll call.

"I don't understand how you could forget something like that," Jim spat, sounding frustrated. His grip on the burrito caused some of the filling to squish out the top. "Especially being the way we are."

"Maybe it was something I wanted to forget," Pete said dismissively, wishing Jim would just get over it already and stop ruining his food. It didn't seem like he'd gotten the full story from Brinkman, or at least the part that he was concerned about, and if he was lucky Jim would be satisfied with what he'd heard. At the intense stare he was still getting, Pete tried, "It's a dark spot on the department's record, and like you said, being _the way we are_ it's not something I like to think about all that often."

"I guess that makes sense," Jim surrendered.

"I'm glad you can see it that way," Pete replied sternly. "Finish eating so we can get back on the road."

Jim peeled back the tortilla and muttered something under his breath.

"Look, I know you're dying to talk about it, but you're just gonna have to drop it, okay?" Pete tried.

"Aw, come on, Pete!" A single bean rolled over Jim's knuckles and landed on the table.

"What did I just say?" Pete growled.

"Yes, sir," Jim sighed.

Pete stiffened at the word. "And don't call me _sir_." Before they'd been together, it had only been routine. But there was something that rubbed him the wrong way about it. He couldn't bear to romanticize or sexualize the official title. "I don't give a shit if I'm your superior officer. If nobody else is around, don't _ever_ call me sir."

"Alright," Jim crumpled his napkin. "Let's talk about something else, then." He let out a heavy breath, cooling down quickly. "What do you want to do after patrol today?"

"I don't know," Pete shrugged. "I'd like to go home and take a nice long nap, maybe."

"A nap?" Jim groaned.

"Aren't you still a little sore from yesterday?"

Jim shrugged and studied his mutilated lunch. "It's not that bad."

"Mmhmm," Pete said. "You know, it's been a while for me but I still remember what it feels like after your first time."

Jim looked back up at him and smiled softly. "I'm fine, Pete, really. Maybe it's gonna hurt a little bit if we get into a foot pursuit. But I want to do it again. Not tonight, but soon."

Jim's obvious eagerness to please him was just too much. It was true indeed that Pete remembered what it had been like his first time, and he knew that it wasn't only a foot pursuit that would make it ache. He'd seen the way Jim gingerly lowered himself into his seat, wincing on the way down, and he knew that no amount of pestering would get him to admit how much it really did bother him. Somehow in Jim's twisted mind, it was better to keep smiling and telling Pete it was great, when surely he knew that if it was the other way around, Pete would be openly griping, "This _hurts_, damn it."

It was too much to think about in that moment. Not while they were on the clock. He finished the last bite of his sandwich and gave Jim a hard pat on the shoulder.

"Let's get back on the road," he said decisively, trying to keep himself in line as much as Jim.

"How about the beach?" Jim pushed onward as Pete cleared up their table and headed into the hallway. "It's a great day to go to the beach!"

"Oh, and I'm sure it'll be a beautiful sunset," Pete replied, unlocking his gun from its slot.

"So? Let's go!"

"Don't you have a wife to get home to?" he rolled his eyes as he said it, praying it would blow over but knowing it was already too late.

Jim stared at him in awe. "So that's what's been bugging you?" he was practically whispering.

"Amongst other things," Pete shrugged. "Look, you want to do something after watch today? Fine. You come up with something and you surprise me, okay?"

The strange look lingered for a few minutes as they strode down the hall and out into the lot. It stayed even as they buckled their seatbelts and until they made it out of the lot. Pete wondered if Jim would ever speak again. As quiet as he'd been all day, it had been quite pleasant to hear Jim babble again.

Finally Jim let out a heavy sigh and put on a smile, and he eagerly said, "Okay, Pete, I've got it."

"Yeah?" Pete prompted.

"But it's a surprise," Jim said. "I'll drop you off after patrol and then, uh, go home and get changed, and then we're gonna go out."

"Where?"

Jim continued to smile as he shook his head.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" Pete began to smile, too, and bit his tongue to keep from adding, _as long as you're happy._

* * *

Still smiling for the duration of the day, Jim did exactly as he said, driving to Pete's apartment but staying in the car as Pete got out.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Maybe half an hour at the most," Jim leaned from the window and spoke.

"Just come on up and let yourself in, I guess." Pete folded his arms and bent over to meet Jim's eyes. "I'll be ready for you, whatever it is you have in mind."

"I'm not gonna walk in and find you napping on the couch, am I?" Jim asked. "We're going out, remember?"

"I wish you'd tell me more than that," Pete sighed.

Jim made like he was zipping up his lips, and then, perhaps being especially concerned about security as a police officer, he also mimed turning a key in a lock over his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder afterward.

"Yeah, okay," Pete grinned in such a way that he knew would elicit a roll of the eyes and a heavy sigh.

When Jim was gone he headed upstairs and shuffled about to get ready, knowing that no matter how hard he tried to convince him otherwise, Jim would insist that they go out after all.

Quickly, he changed out of his clothes and took a short shower, not sure if it was necessary depending on whatever Jim had in mind. When he was stepping out and drying off he could hear the front door slamming shut. As an arresting officer who'd been threatened with revenge enough times, his heart always skipped a few beats to hear a noise like that, but tiptoeing out of his bathroom he could hear Jim clucking to himself, waiting in the living room.

"In here," he called out his bedroom door, reluctantly drying off. The look on Jim's face as he peeked around the corner made him chuckle out loud.

"Come on, get dressed!" Jim ordered, crossing his arms.

"I've got a better idea," Pete draped the damp towel over his shoulders and sat on the edge of his bed, smiling tiredly and gesturing with a bent finger for Jim to join him.

"Nah-ah," Jim shook his head and threw open a dresser drawer, grabbing a neatly folded shirt and tossing it into Pete's arms.

"Alright, alright," Pete half-buttoned the shirt and stuffed himself into the same pants he'd worn earlier. "How's about telling me what we're doing this afternoon?"

"We're gonna go for a stroll in the park," Jim stared at his feet and grinned the same way he did when he had an excellent hand of cards.

"That's what all this fuss is for?" Pete knew it wouldn't be hard to get out of Jim what he was bluffing about.

The blue-eyed gaze returned to him, and with delight, he said, "Okay, I'll show you."

Letting Jim hold him by the wrist and lead him out of his own room, Pete couldn't imagine what the young man had in mind.

But he figured it out quick when Jim spoke into the living room, "Hey, are you ready to go?"

Silently waiting on the couch, still buckled into his car seat, was Jim Reed, Junior.

Pete gazed bemusedly at the baby at first, and could feel himself visibly frowning. His disappointment must have shown much more clearly than he thought, because a moment later Jim spat, "What's _that_ look for?"

"What look?" Pete tried, knowing it was useless.

"Aw, come on, Pete! What's wrong with Jimmy?" Antagonizing him further, Jim added "Aren't you happy?"

"Hap-…" Pete clenched his fists in frustration, mostly at himself for being unable to find the right words. "How are we supposed to do anything with _him_ here?"

"What did you have in mind that we can't do with Jimmy here?" Jim folded his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Pete rolled his eyes. "What do you think? Are we supposed to leave him out here while we…" he glanced at the baby warily, as if he expected that somehow Jimmy could understand what was being discussed.

Jim seemed to get the idea nonetheless. "Well, shoot, earlier you made it sound like you didn't even want to do that!"

"I didn't say that, I said I was worried that you wouldn't want to because of last night!" he hated raising his voice with Jimmy in the room.

The baby studied the two men and contemplatively chewed on his fingers.

Pete continued, "Why would you even bring him over here?"

"Why?!" Jim threw up his arms at the question. "Why?! He wants to know why!"

"Jim, god damn it," Pete sighed, exasperated.

Shaking his hands in front of him, Jim raved. "Well? What do you think, we're gonna hide it from him until he's an adult that we're together? He's gotta know that you're a part of _his_ life because you're a part of _my_ life."

"So, you're gonna bring him over to my apartment and leave him sittin' on the couch while we're screwin' in the next room?" Pete's voice was surprisingly more bitter than he intended.

"No, Pete!" Jim's face was reddening the angrier he got. "I mean, he'll know that you're going to be there for him, like I am. We'll take him out to the park and the beach, and stay home and watch TV with him." A small, faint smile crossed Jim's face briefly and his voice softened as he said, "You can help him with his homework and play catch with him."

Pete was absolutely aghast at what he heard. He could hardly process it. The way it made him feel was such a nebulous knot of confusion, there was no way he could tell Jim what it was like. Jim wasn't saying it outright, and perhaps it was just his imagination, but that little teasing jab at fatherhood… it wasn't bad, necessarily, but it wasn't for him, either. And it wasn't something he was willing to have thrust upon him without consent.

He tried, "And just how does Jean feel about this, huh? How does Jean feel about you bringing _her_ baby over to play house with your 37-year-old patrol partner? The one that you're cheating on her with, no less."

Jim's face crumpled in anger and shame. "He's my son, too, Pete!"

"Well," Pete snarled. "He's _not_ mine!"

That was the final straw for Jim. He turned violently and snatched up Jimmy's car seat, storming silently to the door.

"And now you're running off to pout like you always do," Pete tried, hoping it would piss him off enough to get him to turn around.

Jim ignored him and headed for the stairs with Jimmy in his arms.

Pete followed him through the door. "Damn it, Jim, come back here!" his heart was racing. He could finally feel it after this whole time, rattling against his ribcage so hard it made his teeth chatter.

"Forget it, Pete!" Jim finally called back to him from the first floor as he got Jimmy locked into the back seat. "I'm sorry I bothered coming over at all!"

"For God's sake, Jim!" All at once the sharp anger had softened into a pleading tone that he hadn't at all expected.

He leaned heavily over the banister and watched Jim's car drive away.

Mrs. O'Brien, who had been standing outside below him the whole time, squinted up at him. With a kinked hose she was watering an enormous jade plant that was so gnarled and overgrown it hardly bore any resemblance to the lovely little succulents that could be cultivated in a dainty little pot. Most of the juicy, thick leaves had been torn up by birds and the Mulrano kids, and Pete had advised the apartment manager several times to put the horrible plant out of its misery with a gallon or two of Round-Up.

Switching off the water, she smiled up at him and said, "Well, Peter, that was quite a show."

He turned, offended, and lurched inside.

"You sure seem to have a knack for sending them running out screaming and yelling," she continued to tease. "At least this one wasn't in tears."

"Mind your own fucking business," he told the old woman as he slammed the door.


	4. How Many Heartaches

a/n: first, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who pitched in with a word of support after the incident with the anonymous reviewer. I can't even begin to say how moved I am to know that there are so many people on this site—people who don't even necessarily read my stories—who are upstanding, compassionate people. That review was intended to make me feel really bad, but it ended up turning into a wonderful experience because of all you lovely people who took the time to let me know that you care.

I apologize for the additional length, the ooc-ness, and the general soap opera-y feel of this chapter. I'm really uncomfortable with writing multi-chapter fics and I ended up combining two chapters into one so I wouldn't have to spend another month or two on this hot mess. If everything goes according to plan, the next chapter SHOULD be the final chapter, and I certainly hope it isn't as underwhelming as this one.

* * *

During the night, the heavy brown smog began to thicken with the beginnings of grey storm clouds. Whenever locals complained about an overcast day, Pete was always reminded of what "overcast" really meant. He knew from his childhood in Seattle that the sky, at will, could lazily settle upon hilltops; the tips of towers and tall buildings could disappear, fading away into the viscous clouds. "Overcast" in Los Angeles was different. Instead of bone-chilling and damp, it made the air sweaty and sticky, and even the lightest summer uniforms seem woolen and scratchy.

The night after Jim brought his son over, the weather was so unbearable Pete could hardly sleep. Even naked on bare sheets with his windows pushed wide open, he couldn't get comfortable. He couldn't keep his eyes closed long enough to force rest. When he finally staggered into the kitchen to search for a half-finished bottle of Wild Irish Rose he knew he'd left somewhere, a big yellow cockroach had crawled up from the sink. Hearing it crunch under his rolled-up newspaper set the hair on the back of his neck on end and made the idea of sleep even more intangible.

And yet even with the weather and the roaches and every other miserable thing that nagged at him, he knew the true cause of his insomnia.

Jim Reed, that rat bastard.

Jim Reed, that lovely young man with pretty eyes and pretty lips, and a sincere, tender heart.

The longer he lay awake, the more he began to believe that it wouldn't have been so bad after all to take the damn baby for a stroll in the park. But the cynical logic in him reminded him that it was Jim's son they'd be with. Jean's son. Not Pete's.

In enough time his weary mind let him remember the strange excitement he'd felt so many years ago when a woman he'd been with had told him she was pregnant. What a joke it would have been, he knew, a 24-year-old grease monkey trying to raise a kid and support a wife. He'd been a kid himself. A smart-mouth, know-it-all kid.

But he knew, too, the way Jim looked when he held his son. The way a smart-mouth know-it-all kid could become so serious and mature. The way those glimmering blue eyes could shine with compassion and sincerity as he gazed upon his child's face.

It had been a moment in Pete's life when he'd known for sure that Jim was more to him than an intangible pretty face, that day those months ago when Jimmy had been born. Holding his son for the first time, Pete could see the way Jim changed. Seeing Jim and Jean in the hospital that day, he could tell that they had both grown up a lot in such a short time.

It wasn't the first time Pete wondered what it was like to know the unique kind of love that a parent has for a child. But it was the last time he questioned if he ever would. Because Jimmy _wasn't_ his son. That _wasn't_ his life. Nothing he or anyone did could make it that way.

It was why he'd resisted Jim's attempt to push Jimmy on him. How could he raise another man's son? Furthermore, how could Jimmy ever respect the man who'd ruined his parents' marriage?

"I'm not _that_ bad," Pete had mumbled to himself in his exhausted stupor. Jim was partially to blame, too. After all, he'd never forced Jim to do anything. That afternoon so long ago when they first figured out how they felt for each other, it had been Jim who kissed him first. It had been Jim who promised to never, ever resent him.

And he'd promised! Pete wondered what had happened to the naive probationer who hung on his every word, who dwelled on every move he made. The Jim he'd fallen for looked up to him and respected him. What happened to that admiration? That adoration? Jim thought the world of him… or at least he used to.

Pete didn't want to tarnish the image Jim had made of him. Jim – dare he admit it to himself—loved him, and in the hazy moments before he finally drifted off to sleep, Pete knew he couldn't bear it if that love ever turned to hate.

* * *

Pete knew he should've sought out Jim as soon as he got to the station. He should've gone and found him and stared right into those icy blue eyes and said "Looky here" and eked out an apology of some sort. But when he was alone in the locker room and he couldn't find Jim anywhere in the station halls, he gave up without any more effort and planted himself in the break room with a stale cup of coffee.

For a few long minutes he was alone with his thoughts, the faint radiant hum of the florescent lights the only noise filling the room. But he found after last night that he wasn't ready to let his mind wander again, so he slammed the coffee and went back to wandering the halls, looking for Jim or anyone else to talk to.

The companionship he wanted came soon enough. As he rounded a corner and neared one of the station's bulletin boards, he could make out ahead of him a distinct hourglass figure and blonde hair which was today pulled up into a braided bun. It was sexy in a kind of Bavarian way, and as he stepped up behind her, he tried, "Mornin' fraulein."

"Oh, Malloy!" Officer Vera smiled to see him. "I was hoping to run into you before watch."

"Yeah?" he liked the attention the young woman paid to him, and he could feel himself subconsciously sucking in his gut.

"Yeah, I wanted to thank you for the little confidence boost you gave me yesterday." She leaned a little closer and added, "It really helped my nerves before going to those schools."

"So it went well, huh?" he asked.

"It did! It helped so much to talk to you beforehand." Blushing, she continued. "I wish I could make it up to you."

"Well!" at this he let himself grin openly and fold his arms smugly against his chest.

"Oh! I didn't mean—," she laughed and blushed some more. "I meant, I'd like to buy you coffee sometime, something like that."

"Sure," he teased.

"Jeez, Malloy," she crossed her arms too, mimicking his pose, although he guessed his own chest didn't look so good when he did it. "You really are the wolf they say you are."

"And just what _do_ they say about me?" he asked.

"Well, Brinkman and um, Woods I think it was, they told me you have a way with women. What that way was, they wouldn't elaborate." She laughed. "They also said you've been 'out of commission' lately as far as they could tell. They figured you were getting bored and waiting for a real babe to come along. Should I be flattered?"

"Most of it came from Woods, huh?" Not wanting to confirm or deny anything, he wondered whether his lack of skirt-chasing in the past couple of months had really been that obvious. "That guy's got a mouth on him like a sieve."

"I can see that," she said. "Should I tell him that you're back on patrol after all? Or should I tell him you're code 6 on me?"

"Hey now," he smirked. "I'm not the one who offered to buy coffee."

"Some gentleman!" Vera teased. "Or are you just one of those kind-hearted male feminists who lets the lady pick up the tab so she feels more empowered?"

"I know a lotta ways I can make a woman feel empowered that don't involve money," he lowered his voice and his eyelashes.

"Care to enlighten me?" she smirked right back at him.

"Hey, Malloy," Woods' voice echoed down the hall, butting into their solitary moment as he and Brinkman strutted down the hall past them. "Didn't they tell ya about fraternization at the academy?"

"That was so long ago, he's forgotten by now," Brink added, not quite as quick with the repartee as his partner. "Say, Pete, what was it like taking your written exams with a quill and papyrus?"

"Cut the guy a break, Bob. By the time _you_ were in the academy the IQ test was nothing more than seeing if you could put the square peg in the square hole and the round peg in the round hole. They didn't even make you sort by color."

Listening to the banter, Vera shyly tried, "There goes the odd couple."

Woods raised an eyebrow and said, "You'd better keep an eye on that one, Pete."

"He's got an eye on her all right," Brink quipped, and they both exploded into a fit of giggles.

"I've gotta get to roll call," Pete said, shaking his head at the pair.

"Yeah, I don't want to get you in trouble," Vera said. "With them or the lieutenant."

"I'd rather deal with the lieutenant," he said, making her laugh out loud as they went their separate ways.

When he'd gathered his helmet and his papers for the day, Pete headed for the roll call room and instinctively searched for the back of Jim's head. When he couldn't see him, he picked an open seat in the front row and set about getting his stuff organized. It wasn't unusual for Jim to wander in with the last few guys, Pete told himself. They didn't always have to sit together before patrol.

The longer he waited, the more he tried to assure himself while he glanced at the door. Every time it swung open he felt himself perk up, and every time someone besides Jim entered, he sank a little bit lower. By the time Mac entered and took his place at the front of the room, Pete began to sincerely worry.

When roll call began, Pete's gazed was fixed exclusively on the door.

"1-Adam-12, Malloy," Mac droned.

"Here," Pete hardly turned to answer.

"Reed," Mac continued.

At this Pete finally turned around.

Mac's chilly eyes darted around the room. "Reed?" he repeated, looking at Pete.

Pete began to shrug and a moment later the door swung open. As everyone spun in their seats, Jim stood in the doorway, his hat half-cocked on his head, his briefcase swinging in his hand.

"Here!" Jim sputtered, sitting in the last open seat in the back row.

Mac rolled his eyes and made a mark on the sheet in front of him. "Let's try to remember to be on time, guys," he deadpanned. "I might just start making you stay late to write 'I will not be late to class' on the blackboard a hundred times."

A short round of laughter made its way around the room and Jim blushed and stared into his hat.

When roll call was done, Pete decided to make the first move. If he left it to Jim, he'd get too hung up on what was said last night and they'd never say anything to each other for the rest of the day.

"Where were you all morning?" Pete said, kicking himself afterward for not even saying 'hello' first.

Jim shrugged and followed him out to the car.

"Jim…" Pete gave him a look over his shoulder.

"Uh," Jim got the shotgun into place on its rack and avoided Pete's eyes. "Jean and I had a counseling session and it ran a little long."

"I see," Pete shut up quick at the mention of that. The truth was that in this whole time, he'd wondered desperately what was discussed with that damn counselor, but he'd been sure Jim would tell him if anything really juicy came up. The most he'd ever bothered to ask was whether the guy had anything to say about Jim being gay.

"We never told him that," Jim had said shortly. "He knows I'm having an affair but I guess he thinks it's with another woman."

That had been the last thing Jim had told him about the sessions, and until this morning Pete had been content to remain ignorant.

"Real good conversation this morning?" he tried as they got their helmets and briefcases into the trunk.

"Not really," Jim said.

"Well, if it ran long enough that you were late for roll call…" Pete felt like he was prying.

Jim shrugged again. "Traffic was pretty bad, too."

"Uh…" He began to wonder whether it had been a good idea to dive right in without even mentioning last night. He should apologize, he knew. But it suddenly seemed too daunting. Besides, Jim was talking to him, wasn't he? He couldn't be that mad as long as he was talking.

Jim cleared them as they pulled out and then said nothing else.

So much for that, Pete thought.

"Do you have any plans for your days off?" Pete tried, forcing conversation.

"No. Do you?" Jim's voice was heavy with obvious anticipation.

Slowly, Pete said, "I might go out with Vera."

"Vera?" Jim repeated softly. The lack of inflection made Pete nervous.

"You know, the one from Juvenile," he said, although he guessed there wasn't any doubt in Jim's mind about _which_ Vera.

"Oh," Jim said. "I see."

"As friends," Pete added, wishing that he'd apologized after all.

"That's what I figured," Jim said. His voice was suddenly quite happy and he smiled dumbly. It was hard to determine the sincerity.

Pete wasn't sure what else to say, so he continued on in silence. From the corner of his eye he could see Jim staring ahead, subconsciously wringing his hands despite the forced smile. It made the quiet between them even more awkward, and after another hour Pete couldn't take it.

"Let's talk," he said, as if he was pulling rank and giving orders.

"About what?" Jim's voice cracked halfway through.

"Whatever you want," Pete said.

Jim chewed on the insides of his cheeks for a while and then tried, "Have you ever head of Diwali?"

"A what?" Pete asked.

"Diwali. It's um, it's like Christmas for Hindus" Jim murmured. "They have lights and candles and things."

"You don't say," Pete knew it sounded patronizing.

"I read about it in the National Geographic," Jim finished.

"That's a good magazine," Pete said.

"Yup," Jim agreed.

The silence returned. The radio chattered for a few minutes and then quieted down again.

"Pete?" Jim said, his voice filled with nervous hesitation once more.

"Yeah?" Pete answered.

"Uh…" Jim closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out, and turned to look at him. "Do you…" he blushed and looked away. "You know, there's a really great coral reef in Hawaii. Really brightly colored. Lots of little fish swimmin' around."

"National Geographic?" Pete sighed, telling himself it was wiser not to push for what Jim really wanted to say, although he couldn't keep from wondering.

"Same issue," Jim nodded.

"Got some good pictures in that magazine," Pete said. He wished he knew how to cut though the awkward net that draped over them. "I don't like the close-ups of bugs and spiders, though."

"Some of them are kind of cute," Jim said. It was the first time all morning that there was a hint of that endearing sincerity in his voice.

It gave Pete a tight knot in his gut, that kind of typical Jim thinking. It was the dumb shit like that that made an otherwise strange personality so charming.

"Anything with six eyes and eight legs and big hairy fangs isn't _cute_," Pete tried to egg him on, craving the routine banter more than he'd ever craved those pink lips or that narrow, muscular waist.

"Well what's 'cute,' then?" Jim couldn't resist needling him, even through the smog-like tension. "What's _cute_?"

"Anything that's not a spider," Pete said, hoping that this was the end of the uneasy feeling.

"_Anything_?" Jim grinned.

"Anything that's not a spider or a bug or a creepy-crawly." Pete shuddered. "I'd rather face down a strung-out hype in a dark alley than a roach or a spider."

"You're crazy!" Jim laughed, and when the dimples showed on his cheeks and he threw back his head in amusement, Pete was sure they were out of the woods.

* * *

The day went surprisingly well. The oppressive heat, made worse by the lazy grey clouds darkening progressively throughout the day, hadn't yet driven the citizens of Central Division to commit more crimes. Jim seemed to have forgiven Pete for everything he'd said the night before. When the radio would grow silent and their conversation would slow, Pete could see that Jim squirmed and fidgeted in his seat like he had something on his mind, but he also knew that it was a regular thing for Jim and he didn't let himself be too concerned.

Their calls were mostly anti-climactic, except one made by a citizen who stopped them as they patrolled downtown and directed them to a fire hydrant at a corner that some kids had taken a wrench to, creating themselves a personal water park. Neither of them had the heart to run off the children gleefully playing in the stream, particularly when they got close enough to revel in the refreshment themselves. While they waited for the fire department to show up, the fountain gushing from the hydrant produced a fine mist which settled on their hair and uniforms and soaked into their hot, sweaty skin.

The temporary luxury made them smile gratefully at each other on the street. The mist hung on Jim's eyelashes and made his hair cling to his forehead, and in those achingly short minutes, Pete began to forget why he'd been unhappy with Jim at all. He swore to himself that he'd apologize when they were off duty and he'd even suck up a little bit and hope Jim would be satisfied enough to spend the night with him. But as long as they were on the clock, he kept quiet and didn't even grumble when the fire department at last showed up and closed the hydrant, stopping the delightful mist.

By the time they took 7 the cloudy sky made the city so humid Jim's hair hadn't yet dried, and Pete stared lovingly at it across the table at the station. It was getting long these days, Pete noticed. He teased Jim about the sideburns that were growing toward a write-up from the watch commander, and Jim modestly pushed the damp bangs out of his eyes and promised to get a haircut.

Their uniforms finally dried out as they wrapped up patrol, even as the sky grew darker and air thicker. Pete wondered whether it would rain soon or whether the clouds would eventually clear. In his youth, he'd known that a grey sky didn't necessarily bring rain, but he also knew that L.A. was different. At the very least, he hoped that they'd have their reports finished and be on their way home before the sky opened up, and he'd spend this night happier than the last, not alone, but with Jim's delicate pink lips against his as the rain rattled against the windows.

At the end of watch they made their way to the report desk and Jim quickly took the single chair, snatching up a pen someone had left behind and neatly printing his name on the top of the report.

"You're gonna get started with that?" Pete asked, trying to figure out the best way to bring up what had happened last night. He decided he'd invite Jim over and he'd make his apology on the drive home.

"Sure," Jim said. "But uh, you can finish it."

"You're all heart," Pete smiled, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and starting off down the hall. "I'm gonna go look for somethin' to write with," he lied, figuring that the day had been slow enough that Jim would be done with everything by the time he returned from a short walk around the station.

He made it as far as the front desk before he ran into the watch commander.

"Hey, Pete, do you have a minute?" Mac called after him.

"Sure," Pete said. "Just a minute, though. I've still got a lot of reports to fill out."

"Okay, Pete," Mac rolled his eyes. "Hey, uh, I wanted to let you know, Miller and Russo picked up your 211 suspect from yesterday about an hour ago. Danny Montoya?"

"Oh yeah?" Pete asked, half-interested.

"The dicks who followed up with the PR said he kept mentioning something about going easy on him. That sort of thing."

"Feltz was sayin' that," Pete nodded. "I guess he's a friend of the guy. Said they're pretty close."

"That's what I've heard," Mac said. "When we contacted Feltz to let him know he'd have to testify against Montoya it didn't go over very well. He said he wanted to help Montoya, not hurt him."

"He _is_ helping him." Pete said sternly. "If Montoya's as strung out as Feltz says he is, he's lucky he got busted sooner than later."

Mac nodded, perhaps in agreement. "Well, look, Pete… now, I'm not asking any favors or any sort of special work, but, well, with that TJ fella you and Reed helped out before…"

"Alright, Mac, I get it," Pete gave a knowing smile. "I can't promise anything, but if Montoya can get cleaned up okay and he doesn't have any other strikes against him, I guess you can go ahead and let Feltz know that we'll be looking out for his buddy."

"Alright, Pete," Mac said. "I guess I'll let you get back to those reports you're working _so_ hard on."

Pete glanced at his watch, trying to gauge how long he'd left Jim alone. The knowledge that Montoya had been picked up and was already on his way to Central Receiving put him in a good mood and by the time he made it back to the report desk he had a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

Jim sat with his back to the hallway and one hand was bent over his down-turned lips. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his pen hovered motionlessly an inch above the paper.

"That 211 suspect from yesterday got picked up a while ago," Pete reported, leaning his weight on the desk. "Mac wants us to help him out like TJ. After he's cleaned up, of course."

Jim nodded silently, not lifting his eyes from the paper.

"Anyway, I guess it's our first little project together, you and I," Pete tried, craning his neck, hoping to get a peek at those lovely blue eyes he'd longed to look into all day. "I mean, since we've been together like we are."

"Mmm."

"Mmm, what?" Pete smiled broader, and seeing that the pen clutched so tightly in Jim's fingers had yet to move, leaned down closer and let his voice get lower as he teasingly said, "You know something, Jim, if you were as good at writing reports as you are at givin' head, we'd be the first unit out of the station every day."

Jim seemed like he was frozen for a few moments, and then all at once, his arms were crossed dejectedly on the desk and his face was hidden, buried in the crook of his elbows.

"That was a compliment!" Pete thought it sounded incredibly stupid by the time he finished saying it, and be wished he hadn't said it at all when he saw Jim's grasp tighten even more on the pen he still held.

"I can't… I can't do this," Jim's voice cracked.

Pete's heart pounded. He could easily imagine what Jim was going to say, but still he stupidly tried.

"I'll finish the reports-," he sputtered.

"I'm not talking about the reports, dammit," Jim continued to speak, though his voice was muffled through his arms.

Suddenly Pete felt sick. His gut tightened at the uncertainty. He dare not dig his hole any deeper and he waited for Jim to speak.

"I'm talking about you and me, Pete." Slowly Jim lifted his head, and although his lips quivered, his voice was steady. "I don't think you're ready to be in a serious relationship with me."

"I'm not… _what_?" It happened so fast, Pete could hardly respond. There were a million things he knew he could have said. If he would've waited a minute or two, perhaps he could have calmed down and made some sense of it all and had something better to say. But in the heat of the moment, he couldn't wait until it sank in to respond. "This is about last night with Jimmy, isn't it?" he spat.

"It's not about Jimmy," Jim sighed.

"Well, I'm sorry I don't feel like playing house with you," Pete snarled. "But I'm not exactly father material, okay?"

"I'm not asking you to be his father. He already has a father." Jim breathed. "I'm just letting you know, this is part of the package deal, okay? If you love me, you love my son."

"Well I never said—,"

"Yeah, Pete, you never said anything about _love_." Jim cut him off and clenched his jaw, staring at Pete's chest, unable to lift his eyes any further.

Pete couldn't believe Jim had the nerve to bring that up yet again. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Jim said, emotionlessly.

In that same moment, an hourglass figure with a blonde, braided bun turned at the corner and made her way toward them.

The station was the wrong place to have this conversation, Pete told himself. There was always somebody around and the chance of getting caught was always too great. They couldn't afford to let on that there was anything between them. _Gotta cover my ass before I worry about anyone's feelings_, Pete thought. His heart raced at the thought of how easily they could be overheard.

"Okay," Pete shrugged nonchalantly and smiled as Officer Vera approached them.

"Malloy," she smiled back and nodded at Jim. "Reed. Uh, how's it going?"

"Just fine," Pete said. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, I was thinking," she blinked and looked away. "I don't know what you're doing with your days off, but I'm going to be busy all next week helping my mother move into her new apartment, so if you're serious about that coffee thing we ought to do it tonight."

"Tonight?" Pete tried to ignore Jim's knuckles turning white as he clenched the pen in silence. Without much thought about what he was doing, he said, "You know, that sounds great. What time do you want me to pick you up?"

"I figured we'd just meet somewhere," she said.

"What kind of man would I be if I just let you meet me somewhere?" Pete asked.

She rolled her eyes and removed her notebook from her breast pocket. "Can I borrow your pen, Reed?"

Jim's hand wavered as he held it behind him, and he released the pen before she could grab it. It clattered loudly onto the floor at her feet.

Nobody said anything as she bent to pick it up.

"Here's my phone number," Vera said, scrawling on the notepad. "I guess you can give me a call when you're ready and we'll go from there."

"Sounds great," Pete accepted both the paper and Jim's pen. "I'll see you tonight, then?"

"See you tonight," Vera said as she strutted off down the hall.

"Real nice, Pete," Jim spat when she was gone. "You're real darn nice. Not even a minute after I say something and you're already making other plans."

"Alright, _listen_." The sinking feeling returned quicker than before. He gestured at Jim angrily with the pen. "We're not discussing this any further as long as we're here, got it? It was pretty stupid to bring it up at all. You know better than that."

Jim let out a low string of mumbles as his chair scraped loudly along the floor and he rose abruptly. "I'm goin' to the bathroom." He clutched himself like he was sick to his stomach and he scurried off without meeting Pete's eyes.

When quite a few minutes passed and Jim hadn't returned, Pete grudgingly took his place at the desk and got to finishing the reports. After all, he had a date tonight and he didn't want to waste any more time at the station.

As he crossed out Jim's name at the top of the paper and replaced it with his own, it finally started to sink in what had just happened.

Jim had broken up with him.

Pete wasn't ready, Jim had said, to be in a relationship with him.

"Not _ready_?" Pete wondered if the steno girls who quietly passed behind him thought he was crazy for talking to himself. "Not ready, my ass."

Just who did Jim think he was, deciding who was ready and who wasn't? Not _ready_? If anyone wasn't ready, it was Jim. At least Pete didn't blush and squirm in the patrol car at the mere mention of sex. At least he didn't try to play house with his wife's son and his patrol partner.

The hurt in him was immediately assuaged with anger. Pete seethed with rage too much to be heartbroken. His handwriting was slanted and hardly legible and he knew Mac would give him a hard time about the reports, but he was so furious he didn't care.

He fumed to think that Jim had the balls to dump him. Who the hell did Jim think he was? All the damn effort Pete had put into this—all the stupid dates and dinners, all the times he'd given in and done everything Jim wanted—and Jim wanted to break up with _him_? He'd been so careful, so gentle and compassionate. He'd moved so slow and let Jim call the shots, just because he knew it was what Jim wanted and what _he_ wanted was to keep Jim happy. And how did Jim thank him? By calling it off right there in the station and leaving him to finish the reports.

_That lousy little shit,_ Pete thought. _Skinny little fuck._ He knew the first night he'd met the kid that he was an entitled, arrogant punk. How had he gotten so enraptured of someone like that? How could he be so hung up on him?

He wouldn't be hung up, he told himself. He had a date tonight, after all, and he didn't even need to think about Jim if he didn't want to.

Fuck Jim. And fuck Jimmy and Jean, too.

* * *

Things were going well two hours into the date. The sky had blackened with the sunset, and into the late hours of the night a light rain began to fall upon the city. Coffee with Vera had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into a drawling conversation over long-empty plates.

Janette Vera, or Jan as she liked to be called, turned out to be a somewhat more intellectual person than Pete had given her credit for. Of course, when she'd met him in front of her apartment in a loose linen blouse and men's Navy work jeans with big darts taken out at the top to accentuate her wide hips and tiny waist, he hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about her personality.

Two hours later, he felt a little guilty for having seen only the cascading blonde hair and full red lips. He'd forgotten in such a short time the blue suit and badge that he'd seen her in before. The guilt that nagged at him was far greater than that, however. He knew as he stared at her across the table, that he didn't long for the soft breasts under the linen blouse as much as he suddenly missed the muscular chest and coarse brown hair under a cotton t-shirt. He hated himself for being so preoccupied with Jim, even now that he was with Vera. The rage had cooled into a frantic emptiness, and he didn't want to acknowledge the sinking depression he was sure would follow.

What happens now? he wondered, hardly listening to Vera's story about her favorite instructor at the academy. All the times in his life he'd been dumped, it'd never been by somebody he worked with every day. If Jim was serious, would he request a new partner? It was the only logical solution if being around Pete was too much to handle. Pete's record was clean enough that a personality conflict with a partner wouldn't hurt him, but surely it would raise some sort of suspicion at the station if they suddenly stopped speaking to each other.

Transfers were also coming soon, Pete reasoned with himself. Would Jim go that far, to request a move? At least that wouldn't look so bad. He'd made enough noise about the glamour of Hollywood or the variety of Southeast that it wouldn't seem so strange for him to be transferred out. But there was no way Jim would go that far… was there?

The thought crossed Pete's mind that he might soon never see Jim's face again, and he had a pain in his chest that was so disturbing, he rubbed anxiously at his throat until Vera asked him if he was alright.

"I'm fine," he choked, forcing himself to study the strings on the front of her blouse that were coming undone. Anything to keep from acknowledging the personal cloud hanging above him, far darker than the storm rolling over the city.

"You sure?" she reached across the table and touched his hand, giving him a worried look.

He nodded. "Keep going. You were talking about…"

"I was just saying how glad I'll be when we can switch to wearing trousers and ties like you police_men_," she went back to rattling on. "I can't stand having to wear hose every day. When I get home I rip 'em off so fast I run them all up and I have to buy a new pair every week."

"I'm sure," he nodded and lit a cigarette, imagining the sight to distract himself. In the bar-hopping days of his youth, he'd heard a few drag queens complain of a similar issue, although he was sure Vera never struggled with tucking.

She laughed. "You're so easy to talk to, Pete. Most men can't relate to a woman's problem like that."

"It's just common sense," he shrugged, taking a long drag until the tip glowed bright red. He'd already filled the small ashtray so that the butts overflowed onto the table. "I've gotta pick up some more cigarettes pretty soon," he said.

"I really need to be getting home anyway," she said. "I didn't even think to look at my watch this whole time. I can't believe how late it got all of a sudden."

"Time flies when you're having fun," he sighed, realizing how long the evening had seemed to drag on.

She laughed and let him hold her arm in the parking lot as they ran through the rain back to his car. On the drive back to her apartment, she continued with her anecdotes and stale conversation. Her voice became a dull throb, quieted by the rhythm of the windshield wipers. When he stopped in front of a laundromat, she snagged his hand as he got out and leaned after him.

"Pick up a pack for me too?" she asked. "I quit a few months ago but watching you puff away, I can't stand it." She produced a dollar from her purse and held it out to him.

He waved his hand at the money. "They know me here," he said.

"You dirty scoundrel!" she grinned. Then, in the parking lot's fluorescent lights, he could have sworn he saw her wink at him. "Hurry back, Petey," she teased.

The laundromat was empty except one lone woman in the far corner reading a magazine by a running dryer, and he was grateful for that as he fumbled to stuff his money into the cigarette machine by the door. Vera really _had_ winked at him, he was sure. He'd managed to forget all about Jim by working himself into a state, and as he thought about that smile and that wink, and the way the rain had easily soaked that thin linen blouse, he pocketed the cigarettes and made his way to the men's room.

His hands shook as he slid his quarters into the condom dispenser. How long had it been since he'd had to stand in a piss-reeking bathroom and buy rubbers like some kind of delinquent? At least two months, he imagined, and then he began to remember why he hadn't had any use for contraceptives in that time. He'd trusted that Jim wasn't going to give him any nasty rashes, and the only baby he had to worry about was Jimmy.

He suppressed the thoughts again and stuffed the condoms into his pocket along with the cigarettes and strutted back out through the laundromat. Vera peeled the cellophane off her pack as soon as he gave it to her and he handed her his lighter as he started back on the road, letting his hand touch hers as she took it from him.

"God, that's nice," she sighed, cracking her window when the smoke filled the car. Mist from the rain settled on her hair and eyelashes the same way the hydrant had with Jim. "There are few things in this world more satisfying than a cigarette, you know?"

"Oh, I know," he grinned, contently feeling the foil packs crinkle in his pocket, reassuring himself with the prospect of unbuttoning those tight Navy jeans.

"I'm sure," she laughed.

"I think tonight's been going pretty well," he said when he parked the car in front of her apartment building. "What do you say we make it even better?"

"I can't think of a single thing that would make it any better!" she said, rolling up her window as the rain began to come down harder.

"I can," he said. When her glowing look began to fade and she studied him in silence, he unbuckled his seat belt and slid closer to her, bringing up a hand and touching her jaw as tenderly as he could. He pursed his lips and moved in for hers.

"Look, Pete, you're… you're a great guy," Vera smiled softly and leaned back, craning her neck away from his hand and politely distancing herself. "Ever since Daddy died, I've missed him so much and I've never met a guy who reminded me of him more than you."

"Come on, I'm not like your dad," Pete sighed, sliding closer again. "Maybe your big brother."

"That's not a lot better," she laughed.

"Kissing cousin?" he tried. "Your uncle twice removed. Your _young_ uncle."

Vera shook her head, still smiling. "I'm sorry, Pete."

He grumbled to himself, knowing he shouldn't keep pushing.

"I'm _really_ sorry."

"It's fine," he lied, already feeling his stomach tightening in discomfort at the thought of being turned down. It was his own damn fault for assuming that she was interested. She must not have winked after all. Maybe the rain was getting in her eyes. Maybe he'd altogether imagined it. "Don't worry about it. And don't feel like you need to hide from me at work or anything like that."

She opened her mouth to speak, changed her mind, and then gently placed a hand over his. Her acrylic nails grazed his callused knuckles and made him ache to try moving in for a kiss again.

"I like you a lot, Pete," Vera said. "I like you enough that I don't want to help you do something you're going to regret."

"I'll tell ya what I'm gonna regret," he said sadly, thinking about how expensive cigarettes and rubbers were these days. Not to mention dinner.

She forced a smile and patted his hand. "Trust me, I know what you're going through. But you and your girlfriend are going to get through this and I don't want you to feel guilty about-…"

"My girlfriend?" Pete spat, interrupting her sincere, albeit misguided speech. "My _girlfriend_?"

She looked away. "He told me not to say anything but… Reed found me at the station after you left, and, well, he told me about what's going on with you and her. We both have faith in you that you'll see it through. We really do."

"You, he told you-," Pete slammed his palms against the steering wheel. "Dammit, Jan, I don't _have_ a girlfriend!"

Vera studied the rain forming a current over the windshield.

"I don't! I haven't even touched a broad in months!" Pete snarled. He recalled the time Jim mentioned having let on a little too much with Jean, and at once the fear of being found out seized him like never before. "What else did that fink tell you?"

"I think I'd better go," Vera gathered up her purse and moved to open her door.

"What else did he tell you?" Pete brought his arm around her and laid his hand on the other side of her seat, pinning her in place. "You don't believe a damn word he tells you, got it? Not a word!"

"Pete, you let me out of this car right now," Vera's voice was low and her eyes shone in the dim light.

He realized as he stared into her eyes that his heart was pounding. She stared right back at him, not letting herself show any kind of intimidation at his surly outburst. He jerked away his arm and pushed open her door.

"Jesus Christ, Jan, I'm sorry," he said. And how sorry he was. She didn't know any better. How could she? If he could tell her what was really going on, if she knew the way he'd given up two months of his life to be with a guy and how that guy had dumped him right when everything seemed like it was going so well, maybe she'd take some pity on him and let him follow her up the stairs to her apartment.

"I wish I could tell you the truth," he continued as she crawled out of his car.

"And I wish I'd listened to everyone who told me how fresh you are!" she said, slamming the door and leaving him alone in the driver's seat.

He sat with the engine off and watched her run up the stairs, pretending to hold on to some shred of chivalry by making sure she got in safely on such a stormy night. And then, when he could no longer study the slim, denim-clad legs, the anger began to boil up again.

"_Girlfriend_?!" he shouted into the empty car. He simply could not believe the lengths to which Jim would go to make his life miserable. As if dumping him wasn't enough, he had to make sure he'd never get laid again. As if it didn't hurt enough to leave him high and dry right in the middle of the station, Jim saw to it that there wouldn't even be a rebound. _If he can't have me, nobody can,_ Pete sulked as he revved up the engine and tore out of the parking lot more violently than he should have. _Is that it?_

Every little irritating thing that Jim had done in the past two months came back to him as he sped home. In the darkened streets, with the radio turned down and nobody to tell him to slow down or keep an eye on the road, he could feel himself purposely trying to remember everything Jim had done to piss him off. As big as the incident with Jimmy two nights ago, or as small as wiping his nose on his uniform sleeve, Pete recalled every little stupid thing Jim had ever done.

When his tires skidded a few feet at a red light, he told himself if he couldn't calm down, he was going to lose his focus on the road and wind up wrapped around a tree, or worse. He needed to distract himself from everything that he'd been through in only a few short hours.

As if by divine intervention, that distraction came soon enough. Through the torrential rain, Pete almost didn't see the red lights blinking on the side of the road. His policeman's training had become second-nature and he pulled up behind the parked car with hardly a thought. He knew that there was always a certain danger in stopping to help a seemingly stranded motorist, especially without his badge on his chest, but when he was close enough to determine that the shadowy figure was a woman's, he trusted he'd be safe.

She turned to face him as soon as he opened his door and stepped out into the pissing rain.

"Hi there," she said boldly, sizing him up as well as she could in the dim light.

"Can I give you a hand?" he asked, surprised by the roughness in his voice. He hoped he didn't frighten the woman and he told himself once more that he needed to calm down.

"I ran out of gas," she said, slowly, gesturing to an empty gas can by her side. "Can you spare any?"

"I can give you a lift to the next station," he said. Seeing the way she hesitated, he added, "Look, I can't promise that you're gonna be that safe with me, but it'll probably be safer than getting a ride from anyone else." To punctuate his point, he fished his badge wallet from his back pocket and opened it to show her.

"Oh," she laughed. "Well, I guess you're right. I'd be glad to take you up on the offer, officer."

"I thought so," he said, giving her the warmest smile he could manage. After everything that had gone down with Jim and Vera, he doubted he'd be anything close to friendly for a while. Without saying anything else to the woman, he picked up the empty gas can and walked around his car to open the passenger's door, trying to make up for whatever miserable attitude he'd likely show her by at least being a little chivalrous.

"Thanks," she said, slinging her purse into the car and taking the gas can from him, holding it between her feet on the floor.

Pete strutted back around the car and turned the key in the ignition. As the engine fired up the inside light flickered on, and in a soft breath, the woman gasped, "Oh!"

He turned to face her and really see her for the first time in decent light. She was up in years, older than him, he guessed, with cropped, poorly dyed red hair. And, more importantly, she was gazing at him with a certain look he'd come to recognize after years of spending his nights in sleazy bars. The hand coyly covering her mouth gave it away more than anything else.

"I'm sorry, I just—I hadn't realized," she sighed and smiled softly. "Well, a knight in shining armor usually _is_ handsome, isn't he?"

"Shining armor, huh?" Suddenly, at least for a moment, he found himself starting to forget how angry he was. The way she looked at him with an intensity in her eyes was incredibly distracting, and seeing her squirm under his gaze egged him on even more. This time his smile was sincere, even if its intentions weren't so wholesome.

"Let's see, I know there's a gas station somewhere around here," he said, stiltedly. "We might have to drive around a bit… you're not in a hurry, are you?"

"Not unless you are," she replied, smiling.

"That's the kind of thing I like to hear," he told her. Remembering those familiar foil packs in his pocket, he added, "Coming from a good-looking woman, at least."

She gave a short laugh and said, "You're pretty slick, for the heat."

"You think so?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "All of a sudden, I find myself hoping that there aren't any gas stations around here, so maybe I can get to know you a little better."

"What do you wanna know?" he asked.

"Hmm," she put a finger on her chin, like she was really pondering what to ask. Finally she said, "What do you do when you're not a cop?"

"I'm always a cop," he said.

"Do you always act like one?" she asked.

Shaking his head, he replied, "That depends on how you think a cop should act."

"Well," she said, leaning back in her seat. "A true example to the badge probably wouldn't do something like picking up a strange woman on the side of the road and…" at this she at least had the decency to blush, "take her home."

Now that he was really sure, he turned the car around just as sharply as he would with the patrol car responding code 3. He said, "I guess that means I'm still a man before I'm a cop."


End file.
